THE 


COMPLETE 


POETICAL   WORKS 


SAMUEL  ROGERS; 


ital  S^ftlj,  mto 


EDITED     BY 


EPES      SARQENT. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  AND  COMPANY. 

MDCCCLIV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 

EPES    SARGENT, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Stereotyped  by 
HOBART    &    ROBBINS, 

NEW   KNGLAND    TYPE   AND    STEREOTYPE   FOUNDRY, 
BOSTON. 


PREFACE. 


IT  is  now  more  than  a  third  of  a  century  since  Lord 
Byron  alluded  to  the  author  of  "Human  Life"  as  the 
Nestor  of  the  living  poets.  Since  that  time  most  of  his 
then  celebrated  brethren  have  passed  away ;  but  the  ven 
erable  bard  still  lives,  to  enjoy  the  society  he  adorns,  and 
the  fame  which  brightens  with  his  years.  He  has  taken 
leave  of  Byron,  and  Campbell,  and  Moore,  and  all  his  po 
etical  rivals  and  contemporaries  ;  but  he  has  kept  alive  the 
sentiments  and  sympathies  of  his  nature,  and  is  still  cheered 
by  the  company  of  younger  poets,  who  regard  him  with  the 
genial  warmth  of  old  friendship. 

It  was  the  consolation  of  Campbell,  in  his  declining  years, 
that  he  had  never  written  a  line  against  religion  or  virtue. 
We  may  say,  with  equal  truth,  of  Rogers,  that  he  leaves  no 
verse  which,  "  dying,"  he  could  "  wish  to  blot."  Exquisite 
taste  and  judgment  pervade  everything  from  his  pen.  But, 
while  this  purity  of  style  and  sentiment  renders  him  a  fa 
vorite  poet  for  the  study  of  the  young,  his  great  and  pecu- 


IV  PREFACE. 

liar  merits,  we  think,  are  better  felt  and  appreciated,  in  later 
years,  by  those  who  have  become  wearied  with  the  intense 
straining  for  effect,  and  the  passionate  eccentricities,  of  some 
of  our  more  recent  schools  of  verse,  and  recur  with  fresh 
pleasure  to  pages  that  are  marked  everywhere  with  sim 
plicity,  refinement,  and  tranquil  beauty. 

It  has  been  our  object  to  furnish  an  edition  of  the  Com 
plete  Poetical  Works  of  Samuel  Rogers,  in  a  form  so  hand 
some  that  everybody  might  be  pleased  to  possess  it,  and  so 
cheap  that  anybody  might  be  able  to  buy.  We  have  thrown 
together,  in  a  prefatory  memoir,  such  materials  for  the  per 
sonal  and  literary  life  of  the  author  as  were  within  our 
reach :  and,  among  them,  we  are  sure  that  the  admirable 
critiques  of  Mackintosh  and  Jeffrey  will  be  considered  as 
imparting  additional  value  to  the  volume. 


CONTENTS. 


MEMOIR, 9 

POEMS, 59 

PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY.—  Part  I., 61 

Part  II., 77 

AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND, 101 

VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS —  Canto  I., 121 

"        "  "  Canto  II., 123 

"        «  «  Canto  III., 125 

"        "  «  Canto  IV., 128 

"        "  "  Canto  V., 129 

"        "  "  Canto  VI., 131 

"        "  "  Canto  VII., 133 

"        «  «  Canto  VIII., 135 

"        "  "  Canto  IX., 137 

«        "  "  Canto  X., 133 

"        "  "  Canto  XI., 140 

"        "  «  Canto  XII., 142 

JACQUELINE, 163 

HUMAN  LIFE, 179 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 213 

Ode  to  Superstition, 215 

The  Sailor, 221 

A  Wish, 222 

An  Italian  Song, 223 

The  Alps  at  Day-break, 223 

On  a  Tear, 224 

Written  in  a  Sick  Chamber, 225 

To  two  Sisters, 226 

To  a  Friend  on  his  Marriage, 227 

Written  to  be  spoken  by  Mrs.  Siddons,    .   .   . 228 

To  ******  *? 231 

A  Farewell, 231 

From  a  Greek  Epigram, 232 

From  Euripides, 23: 

From  an  Italian  Sonnet, 233 

Captivity, ' 233 

Written  at  Midnight, 233 

1* 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

A  Character, 234 

To  an  Old  Oak, 234 

To  the  youngest  Daughter  of  Lady  *  *, 235 

To  the  Gnat, 236 

To  a  Voice  that  had  been  Lost, 236 

To  the  Butterfly, 237 

An  Epitaph  on  a  Robin-redbreast, 238 

To  the  Fragment  of  a  Statue  of  Hercules, 238 

To , 239 

The  Boy  of  Egremond, f  .   .  240 

Written  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland, 241 

On  ...  Asleep, 243 

An  Inscription  in  the  Crimea, 244 

An  Inscription  for  a  Temple  dedicated  to  the  Graces, 245 

Reflections, 245 

Written  at  Midnight, 248 

From  an  Italian  Sonnet, 248 

Written  in  Westminster  Abbey, 249 

Written  at  Dropmore, 250 

Written  at  Strathfield  Saye, 251 

Written  in  July,  1834, 252 

Written  in  1834, 253 

ITALY, 259 

The  Lake  of  Geneva, 261 

Meillerie, 264 

St.  Maurice, 266 

The  Great  St.  Bernard, 267 

The  Descent, 271 

Jorasse, 273 

Marguerite  De  Tours, 276 

The  Brothers, 278 

The  Alps, 281 

Como, 283 

Bergamo, 286 

Italy, 289 

Coll'alto, 290 

Venice, 293 

Luigi, 298 

St.  Mark's  Place, 300 

The  Gondola, 306 

The  Brides  of  Venice, 309 

Foscari, 314 

Marcolini, 321 

Arqua, 323 

Ginevra, « .325 

Bologna, 328 

Florence, 332 

Don  Garzia, 335 

The  Campagna  of  Florence, 338 

The  Pilgrim, 348 

An  Interview, 351 

Montorio, 355 


CONTENTS.  VII 

FAGS 

Rome, 358 

A  Funeral, 363 

National  Prejudices, 366 

The  Campagna  of  Rome, 368 

The  Roman  Pontiffs, 372 

Caius  Cestius 373 

The  Nun, 374 

The  Fire-Fly, 376 

Foreign  Travel, 378 

The  Fountain, 382 

Banditti,      383 

An  Adventure, 387 

Naples, 392 

The  Bag  of  Gold, 397 

A  Character, 403 

Pcestum, 404 

Amain, 403 

Monte  Cassino, 411 

The  Harper, 413 

The  Felucca, 415 

Genoa,     419 

Marco  Griffoni, 420 

A  Farewell, 423 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


SAMUEL  KOGERS  was  born  at  Newington  Green,  a  village  now  form 
ing  part  of  London,  about  the  year  1763,  and  is  now  (1854) 
upwards  of  ninety-one  years  of  age.  His  birth-place  was  in  a  local 
ity  distinguished  by  many  associations  of  interest.  "  In  this  neigh 
borhood,"  says  "William  Howitt,  in  his  entertaining  work  on  the 
Homes  and  Haunts  of  the  Most  Eminent  British  Poets,  "  the  Tudor 
princes  used  to  live  a  good  deal.  Canonbury,  between  this  green 
and  Islington,  was  a  favorite  hunting-seat  of  Elizabeth,  and  no  doubt 
the  woods  and  wastes  extended  all  round  this  neighborhood.  There 
is  Kingsland,  now  all  built  on,  there  is  Henry  VIII. 's  walk,  and 
Queen  Elizabeth's  walk,  all  in  the  vicinity  ;  and  this  old,  quiet  green 
seems  to  retain  a  feeling  and  an  aspect  of  those  times.  It  is  built 
round  with  houses,  evidently  of  a  considerable  age.  There  are  trees 
and  quietness  about  it  still.  In  the  centre  of  the  south  side  is  an  old 
house  standing  back,  which  is  said  to  have  been  inhabited  by  Henry 
VIII.  At  the  end  next  to  Stoke  Newington  stands  an  old  Presbyte 
rian  chapel,  at  which  the  celebrated  Dr.  Price  preached,  and  of 
which,  afterward,  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Barbauld  was  the  minister. 
Near  this  chapel  De  Foe  was  educated,  and  the  house  still  remains. 
In  this  green  lived,  too,  Mary  Wolstoncroft,  being  engaged  with 
another  lady  in  keeping  school.  Samuel  Rogers  was  born  in  the 
stuccoed  house  at  the  south-west  corner,  which  is  much  older  than  it 
seems.  Adjoining  it  is  a  large,  old  garden.  Here  his  father,  and 
his  mother's  father,  lived  before  him.  By  the  mother's  side  he  was 
descended  from  the  celebrated  Philip  Henry,  the  father  of  Matthew 


10  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS, 

Henry,  and  was  therefore  of  an  old  non-conformist  family.  Mr. 
Rogers'  grandfather  was  a  gentleman,  pursuing  no  profession,  but 
his  father  engaged  in  banking."  In  the  banking-house  the  elder 
Rogers  amassed  considerable  wealth,  which  with  his  business  de 
scended  to  his  son. 

But  little  is  known  of  the  early  life  of  the  poet.-  His  education 
was  liberal,  and  from  an  early  age  he  was  familiar  with  the  best 
society  of  the  metropolis.  In  the  year  1786  he  published  his  first 
volume,  with  the  title  of  "An  Ode  to  Superstition,  and  other  Poems," 
in  which  a  critic  of  the  time,  writing  in  the  Monthly  Rcviciv,  thought 
he  perceived  the  "  hand  of  a  master." 

Six  years  afterwards  he  published  The  Pleasures  of  Memory,  a 
poem  that  attained  an  immediate  popularity,  both  in  England  and 
in  this  country.  This  poem  was  elaborated  with  the  most  consummate 
care  and  art.  He  submitted  it  very  freely  to  the  censure  of  his 
friends  before  publication,  one  of  whom,  Mr.  Richard  Sharpe,  since 
member  of  Parliament,  has  said  that  during  the  preparation  of  the 
first  and  second  editions  he  had  read  it  with  the  poet  several  hun 
dred  times,  at  home  and  on  the  continent,  and  in  every  temper  of 
mind  that  varied  company  and  varied  scenery  could  produce.  "  To 
the  spirit  of  original  observation,"  says  Mr.  Allan  Cunningham  of 
this  poem,  in  his  History  of  British  Literature,  "  to  the  fine  pictures 
of  men  and  manners,  and  to  the  remarks  on  the  social  and  domestic 
condition  of  the  country,  which  mark  the  disciples  of  the  newer 
school  of  verse,  are  added  the  terseness,  smoothness  and  harmony,  of 
the  old.  The  poem  abounds  with  capital  and  brilliant  hits  ;  with 
passages  which  remain  on  the  memory,  and  may  be  said  to  please 
rather  than  enchant  one,  —  to  take  silent  possession  of  the  heart, 
rather  than  fill  it  with  immediate  rapture.  Hazlitt,  with  some  of 
that  perverseness  which  even  talent  is  not  without,  said  the  chief 
fault  of  Rogers  was  want  of  genius  and  taste.  Perhaps  in  the  whole 
list  of  living  men  of  genius  no  one  can  be  named  whose  taste  in 
poetry  is  so  just  and  delicate.  This  is  apparent  in  every  pago  of  his 
compositions  ;  nay,  he  is  even  fastidious  in  his  taste,  and  rejects 
much,  in  the  pictures  of  manners  and  feelings  which  he  paints,  which 
other  authors,  whose  taste  is  unquestioned,  would  have  used  without 
scruple.  His  diction  is  pure,  and  his  language  has  all  the  necessary 
strength,  without  being  swelling  or  redundant :  his  words  are  always 


MEMOIR    OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  11 

in  keeping  with  the  sentiment.  He  has,  in  truth,  great  strength  ; 
he  says  much  in  small  compass,  and  may  sometimes  be  charged  with 
a  too  great  anxiety  to  be  brief  and  terse.  It  was  the  error  of  tho 
school  in  which  his  taste  was  formed  to  be  over  anxious  about  the 
harmony  and  polish  of  the  verso  ;  and  he  may  be  accused  of  erring 
with  his  teachers.  Concerning  the  composition  of  Tho  Pleasures  of 
Memory,  it  is  related  that  he  corrected,  transposed  and  changed, 
till  he  exhausted  his  own  patience  ;  and  then,  turning  to  his  friends, 
he  demanded  their  opinions,  listening  to  every  remark,  and  weighing 
every  observation.  This  plan  of  correction  is  liable  to  serious  objec 
tions.  The  poet  is  almost  sure  of  losing  in  dash  and  vigor  more  than 
what  he  gains  by  correctness  ;  and,  as  a  whole,  the  work  is  apt  to  bo 
injured,  while  individual  parts  are  bettered.  Poetry  is  best  hit  off  at 
one  heat  of  the  fancy  ;  the  more  it  is  hammered  and  wrought  on,  the 
colder  it  becomes.  The  sale  of  The  Pleasures  of  Memory  con 
tinued  to  be  large,  though  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  came  into  the 
market." 

This  production  gave  its  author  a  high  position  among  the  men  of 
letters  who  flourished  in  London  during  the  early  part  of  the  present 
century.  Cumberland,  the  dramatic  author,  in  the  supplement  to 
his  Memoirs,  published  nearly  half  a  century  ago,  advised  Moore, 
who  was  then  known  as  the  translator  of  Anacreon  and  the  author 
of  Little's  Poems,  to  "subject  his  composition  to  the  review  of  his 
correct  and  judicious  friend,  Mr.  Rogers,  (and  when  so  done)  he  may 
surrender  himself  without  fear  to  the  criticism  of  the  world  at  large/' 
"I  can  visit,"  said  the  veteran  reminiscent,  "the  justly-admired 
author  of  The  Pleasures  of  Memory,  and  find  myself  with  a  friend 
who  together  with  the  brightest  genius  possesses  elegance  of  manners 
and  excellence  of  heart.  He  tells  me  he  remembers  the  day  of  our 
first  meeting  at  Mr.  Billy's  ;  I  also  remember  it,  and,  though  his 
modest,  unassuming  nature  held  back  and  shrunk  from  all  appear 
ances  of  ostentation  and  display  of  talents,  yet  even  then  I  take 
credit  for  discovering  a  promise  of  good  things  to  come,  and  sus 
pected  him  of  holding  secret  commerce  with  the  Muss,  before  the 
proof  appeared  in  shape  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  harmonious 
poems  in  our  language.  I  do  not  say  that  he  has  not  ornamented 
the  age  he  lives  in,  though  he  were  to  stop  where  he  is  ;  but  I  hope 
he  will  not  so  totally  deliver  himself  over  to  the  arts,  as  to  neglect 


12  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

the  Muses  ;  and  I  now  publicly  call  upon  Samuel  Rogers  to  answer 
to  his  name,  and  stand  forth  in  the  title-page  of  some  future  work, 
that  shall  be  in  substance  greater,  in  dignity  of  subject  more  sublime, 
and  in  purity  of  versification  not  less  charming,  than  his  poem  above 
mentioned." 

In  November,  1805,  Moore  wrote  to  his  mother,  "  I  am  just 
going  to  dine  third  to  Rogers  and  Cumberland  :  a  good  poetical  step- 
ladder  we  make  ;  the  former  is  past  forty,  and  the  latter  past  seven 
ty.  ' '  It  was  in  the  pages  of  the  Anthologia  Hibernica,  for  the  months 
of  January  and  February,  1793,  that  Moore- first  read,  as  a  school 
boy,  Rogers'  Pleasures  of  Memory,  little  dreaming  that  he  should 
one  day  become  the  intimate  friend  of  the  author  ;  and  such  an  im 
pression  did  it  then  make  upon  him,  as  he  tells  us  in  his  Memoirs, 
that  the  particular  type  in  which  it  is  there  printed,  and  the  very 
color  of  the  paper,  were  through  life  associated  with  every  line  of  it 
in  his  memory. 

Rogers  was  an  early  friend  of  Lord  Byron.  The  noble  poet  had 
excepted  him  from  the  somewhat  indiscriminate  abuse  of  the  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  and  had  complimented  him  in  linea 
which  will  well  bear  transcription  : 

"  To  the  famed  throng  now  paid  the  tribute  due, 
Neglected  genius  !  let  me  turn  to  you. 
Come  forth,  0  Campbell  !*  give  thy  talents  scope; 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope  1 
And  thou,  melodious  Rogers  !  rise  at  last  — 
Recall  the  pleasing  memory  of  the  past. 
Arise  !  let  blest  remembrance  still  inspire, 
And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  hallowed  lyre  ; 
Restore  Apollo  to  his  vacant  throne, 
Assert  thy  country's  honor  and  thine  own." 

This  eulogy  Moore  thinks  the  disinterested  and  Deliberate  result  of 
the  young  poet's  judgment,  as  at  that  time  he  had  never  seen  Rogers 

*  It  would  be  superfluous  to  recall  to  the  mind  of  the  reader  the  authors 
of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory  "  and  *'  The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  the  most 
beautiful  didactic  poems  in  our  language,  if  we  except  Pope's  "Essay  on 
Man  ;"  but  so  many  poetasters  have  started  up,  that  even  the  names  of 
Campbell  and  Rogers  are  become  strange. — Byron's  Note. 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.     ^  13 

(with  whom  he  afterwards  became  intimate)  ;  and  the  opinion  he  then 
expressed  remained  the  same  through  life. 

It  was  in  the  year  1798  that  Rogers  published  "  An  Epistle  to  a 
Friend,  with  other  Poems,"  and  he  did  not  appear  again  as  an  author 
till  the  year  1812,  when  he  ventured  before  the  world  with  a  frag 
mentary  poem  entitled  The  Voyage  of  Columbus.  This  poem  was 
received  by  the  critics  with  various  favor.  In  a  letter  written  from 
Bombay,  before  its  appearance,  Sir  James  Mackintosh  had  begged  to 
be  particularly  remembered  to  Rogers,  and  added,  "  I  hope  Colum 
bus  will  soon  undertake  a  new  voyage  to  the  East,  and  that  he  will 
animate  the  dulness  of  the  one  Indies  more  quickly  than  he  con 
quered  the  barbarism  of  the  other."  When  the  poem  appeared,  the 
great  whig  jurist  and  statesman,  no  less  eminent  as  a  man  of  letters 
and  a  critic,  pronounced  his  judgment  of  its  merits  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review  for  October,  1813  ;  and  we  feel  that  we  cannot  better  occupy 
the  pages  we  have  reserved  for  a  literary  memoir  of  the  poet  than 
by  giving  this  article  entire  : 

"  POEMS  BY  SAMUEL  ROGERS  :  Including  Fragments  of  a  Poem  called 
The  Voyage  of  Columbus.     London,  1812. 

"  It  seems  very  doubtful  whether  the  progress  and  the  vicissitudes 
of  the  elegant  arts  can  be  referred  to  the  operation  of  general  laws, 
with  the  same  plausibility  as  the  exertions  of  the  more  robust  facul 
ties  of  the  human  mind,  in  the  severer  forms  of  science  and  of  useful 
art.  The  action  of  fancy  and  of  taste  seems  to  be  affected  by  causes 
too  various  and  minute  to  be  enumerated  with  sufficent  completeness 
for  the  purposes  of  philosophical  theory.  To  explain  them,  may 
appear  to  be  as  hopeless  an  attempt  as  to  account  for  one  summer 
being  more  warm  and  genial  than  another.  The  difficulty  would  be 
insurmountable,  even  in  framing  the  most  general  outline  of  a  the 
ory,  if  the  various  forms  assumed  by  imagination,  in  the  fine  arts, 
did  not  depend  on  some  of  the  most  conspicuous  as  well  as  powerful 
agents  in  the  moral  world.  But  these  arise  from  revolutions  of  pop 
ular  sentiments,  and  are  connected  with  the  opinions  of  the  age,  and 
with  the  manners  of  the  refined  class,  as  certainly,  though  not  in  so 
great  a  degree,  as  with  the  passions  of  the  multitude.  The  comedy 
of  a  polished  monarchy  never  can  be  of  the  same  character  with  that 
2 


14  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

of  a  bold  and  tumultuous  democracy.  Changes  of  religion  and  of 
government,  civil  or  foreign  wars,  conquests  "which  derive  splendor 
from  distance  or  extent  or  difficulty,  long  tranquillity,  —  all  these, 
and  indeed  every  conceivable  modification  of  the  state  of  a  commu 
nity,  show  themselves  in  the  tone  of  its  poetry,  and  leave  long  and 
deep  traces  on  every  part  of  its  literature.  Geometry  is  the  same, 
not  only  at  London  and  Paris,  but  in  the  extremes  of  Athens  and 
Sarnarcand  ;  but  the  state  of  the  general  feeling  in  England,  at  this 
moment,  requires  a  different  poetry  from  that  which  delighted  our 
ancestors  in  the  time  of  Luther  or  Alfred. 

"  During  the  greater  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  connection 
of  the  character  of  English  poetry  with  the  state  of  the  country  was 
very  easily  traced.  The  period  which  extended  from  the  English  to 
the  French  Revolution  was  the  golden  age  of  authentic  history. 
Governments  were  secure,  nations  tranquil,  improvements  rapid, 
manners  mild  beyond  the  example  of  any  former  age.  The  English 
nation,  which  possessed  the  greatest  of  all  human  blessings,  a 
wisely  constructed  popular  government,  necessarily  enjoyed  the 
largest  share  of  every  other  benefit.  The  tranquillity  of  that  for 
tunate  period  was  not  disturbed  by  any  of  those  calamitous,  or  even 
extraordinary  events,  which  excite  the  imagination  and  inflame  the 
passions.  No  age  was  more  exempt  from  the  prevalence  of  any  spe 
cies  of  popular  enthusiasm.  Poetry,  in  this  state  of  things,  partook 
of  that  calm,  argumentative,  moral,  and  directly  useful  character, 
into  which  it  naturally  subsides  when  there  are  no  events  to  call  up 
the  higher  passions,  —  when  every  talent  is  allured  into  the  imme 
diate  service  of  a  prosperous  and  improving  society,  —  and  when  wit, 
taste,  diffused  literature,  and  fastidious  criticism,  combine  to  deter 
the  young  writer  from  the  more  arduous  enterprises  of  poetical 
genius.  In  such  an  age,  every  art  becomes  rational.  Reason  is  the 
power  which  presides  in  a  calm.  But  reason  guides,  rather  than 
impels  ;  and,  though  it  must  regulate  every  exertion  of  genius,  it 
never  can  rouse  it  to  vigorous  action. 

"  The  school  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  which  prevailed  till  a  very  late 
period  of  the  last  century,  is  neither  the  most  poetical  nor  the  most 
national  part  of  our  literary  annals.  These  great  poets  sometimes, 
indeed,  ventured  into  the  regions  of  pure  poetry  ;  but  their,  general 
character  is,  that  '  not  in  fancy's  maze  they  wandered  long  ; '  and 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  15 

that  they  rather  approached  the  elegant  correctness  of  our  conti 
nental  neighbors,  than  supported  the  daring  flight,  which,  in  the 
former  age,  had  borne  English  poetry  to  a  sublinier  elevation  than 
that  of  any  other  modern  people  of  the  West. 

"  Towards  the  middle  of  the  century,  great,  though  quiet  changes, 
began  to  manifest  themselves  in  the  republic  of  letters  in  every  Euro 
pean  nation  which  retained  any  portion  of  mental  activity.  About 
that  time,  the  exclusive  authority  of  our  great  rhyming  poets  began 
to  be  weakened,  while  new  tastes  and  fashions  began  to  show  them- 
solves  in  the  political  world.  A  school  of  poetry  must  have  prevailed 
long  enough  to  be  probably  on  the  verge  of  downfall,  before  its  prac 
tice  is  embodied  in  a  correspondent  system  of  criticism . 

"  Johnson  was  the  critic  of  our  second  poetical  school.  As  far  as 
his  prejudices  of  a  political  or  religious  kind  did  not  disqualify  him 
for  all  criticism,  he  was  admirably  fitted  by  nature  to  be  the  critic 
of  this  species  of  poetry.  Without  more  imagination,  sensibility  or 
delicacy,  than  it  required,  —  not  always  with  perhaps  quite  enough 
for  its  higher  parts,  —  he  possessed  sagacity,  shrewdness,  experience, 
knowledge  of  mankind,  a  taste  for  rational  and  orderly  compositions, 
and  a  disposition  to  accept,  instead  of  poetry,  that  lofty  and  vigorous 
declamation  in  harmonious  verse,  of  which  he  himself  was  capable, 
and  to  which  his  great  master  sometimes  descended.  His  spontane 
ous  admiration  scarcely  soared  above  Dryden.  '  Merit  of  a  loftier 
class  he  rather  saw  than  felt.'  Shakspeare  has  transcendent  excel 
lence  of  every  sort,  and  for  every  critic,  except  those  who  are  repelled 
by  the  faults  which  usually  attend  sublime  virtues,  —  character  and 
manners,  morality  and  prudence,  as  well  as  imagery  and  passion. 
Johnson  did,  indeed,  perform  a  vigorous  act  of  reluctant  justice 
towards  Milton  ;  but  it  was  a  proof,  to  use  his  own  words,  that 

« At  length  our  mighty  bard's  victorious  lays 
Fill  the  loud  voice  of  universal  praise  ; 
And  baffled  Spite,  with  hopeless  anguish  dumb, 
Yields  to  renown  the  centuries  to  come.' 

The  deformities  of  the  Life  of  Gray  ought  not  to  be  ascribed  to  jeal 
ousy, —  for  Johnson's  mind,  though  coarse,  was  not  mean,  —  but  to 
the  prejudices  of  his  university,  his  political  faction,  and  his  poetical 


16  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

sect ;  and  this  last  bigotry  is  the  more  remarkable,  because  it  is 
exerted  against  the  most  skilful  and  tasteful  of  innovators,  who,  in 
reviving  more  poetical  subjects  and  a  more  splendid  diction,  has  em 
ployed  more  care  and  finish  than  those  who  aimed  only  at  correct 
ness. 

"  The  interval  which  elapsed  between  the  death  of  Goldsmith  and 
the  rise  of  Cowper  is  perhaps  more  barren  than  any  other  twelve 
years  in  the  history  of  our  poetry  since  the  accession  of  Elizabeth. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  fertile  soil  was  at  length  exhausted.  But  it  had 
in  fact  only  ceased  to  exhibit  its  accustomed  produce.  The  estab 
lished  poetry  had  worn  out  either  its  own  resources,  or  the  constancy 
of  its  readers.  Former  attempts  to  introduce  novelty  had  been  either 
too  weak  or  too  early.  Neither  the  beautiful  fancy  of  Collins,  nor 
the  learned  and  ingenious  industry  of  "Warton,  nor  even  the  union 
of  sublime  genius  with  consummate  art  in  Gray,  had  produced  a 
general  change  in  poetical  composition.  But  the  fulness  of  time  was 
approaching  ;  and  a  revolution  has  been  accomplished,  of  which  the 
commencement  nearly  coincides  —  not,  as  we  conceive,  accidentally 
—  with  that  of  the  political  revolution  which  has  changed  the  char 
acter,  as  well  as  the  condition,  of  Europe.  It  has  been  a  thousand 
times  observed,  that  nations  become  weary  even  of  excellence,  and 
seek  a  new  way  of  writing,  though  it  should  be  a  worse.  But,  besides 
the  operation  of  satiety, —  the  general  cause  of  literary  revolutions, — 
several  particular  circumstances  seem  to  have  aifected  the  late  changes 
of  our  poetical  taste  ;  of  which,  two  are  more  conspicuous  than  the 
rest. 

"  In  the  natural  progress  of  society,  the  songs  which  are  the  effusion 
of  the  feelings  of  a  rude  tribe  are  gradually  polished  into  a  form  of 
poetry  still  retaining  the  marks  of  the  national  opinions,  sentiments 
and  manners,  from  which  it  originally  sprung.  The  plants  are  im 
proved  by  cultivation  ;  but  they  are  still  the  native  produce  of  the 
soil.  The  only  perfect  example  which  we  know,  of  this  sort,  is 
Greece.  Knowledge  and  useful  art,  and  perhaps  in  a  great  measure 
religion,  the  Greeks  received  from  the  East ;  but,  as  they  studied  no 
foreign  language,  it  was  impossible  that  any  foreign  literature  should 
influence  the  progress  of  theirs.  Not  even  the  name  of  a  Persian, 
Assyrian,  Phcnician,  or  Egyptian  poet  is  alluded  to  by  any  Greek 
writer.  The  Greek  poetry  was,  therefore,  wholly  national.  The 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  17 

Pelasgic  ballads  were  insensibly  formed  into  Epic,  and  Tragic,  and 
Lyric  poems  ;  but  the  heroes,  the  opinions,  and  the  customs,  con 
tinued  as  exclusively  Grecian  as  they  had  been  when  the  Hellenic 
minstrels  knew  little  beyond  the  Adriatic  and  the  ^Egean.  The  lit 
erature  of  Rome  was  a  copy  from  that  of  Greece.  When  the  classi 
cal  studies  revived  amid  the  chivalrous  manners  and  feudal  institu 
tions  of  Gothic  Europe,  the  imitation  of  ancient  poets  struggled 
against  the  power  of  modern  sentiments,  with  various  event,  in 
different  times  and  countries,  but  everywhere  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  give  somewhat  of  an  artificial  and  exotic  character  to  poetry. 
Jupiter  and  the  Muses  appeared  in  the  poems  of  Christian  nations. 
The  feelings  and  principles  of  democracies  were  copied  by  the  gentle 
men  of  Teutonic  monarchies  or  aristocracies.  The  sentiments  of  the 
poet  in  his  verse  were  not  those  which  actuated  him  in  his  conduct. 
The  forms  and  rules  of  composition  were  borrowed  from  antiquity, 
instead  of  spontaneously  arising  from  the  manner  of  thinking  of 
modern  communities.  In  Italy,  when  letters  first  revived,  the  chiv 
alrous  principle  was  too  near  the  period  of  its  full  vigor  to  be 
oppressed  by  his  foreign  learning.  Ancient  ornaments  were  bor 
rowed  ;  but  the  romantic  form  was  prevalent ;  and  where  the  forms 
were  classical,  the  spirit  continued  to  be  romantic.  The  structure 
of  Tasso's  poem  was  that  of  the  Grecian  epic  ;  but  his  heroes  were 
Christian  knights.  French  poetry,  having  been  somewhat  unac 
countably  late  in  its  rise,  and  slow  in  its  progress,  reached  its  most 
brilliant  period  when  all  Europe  had  considerably  lost  its  ancient 
characteristic  principles,  and  was  fully  imbued  with  classical  ideas. 
Hence  it  acquired  faultless  elegance  ;  hence  also  it  became  less 
natural,  —  more  timid  and  more  imitative,  —  more  like  a  feeble 
translation  of  Roman  poetry.  The  first  age  of  English  poetry,  in 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  displayed  a  combination,  fantastic  enough, 
of  chivalrous  fancy  and  feeling  with  classical  pedantry ;  but,  upon 
the  whole,  its  native  genius  was  unsubdued.  The  poems  of  that  age, 
with  all  their  faults,  and  partly  perhaps  from  their  faults,  are  the 
most  national  part  of  our  poetry,  as  they  undoubtedly  contain  its 
-highest  beauties.  From  the  accession  of  James,  to  the  Civil  War, 
the  glory  of  Shakspeare  turned  the  whole  national  genius  to  the 
drama  ;  and,  after  the  restoration,  a  new  and  classical  school  arose, 
under  whom  our  old  and  peculiar  literature  was  abandoned,  and 


18  MEMOIR   OP  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

almost  forgotten.  But  all  imported  tastes  in  literature  must  be  in 
some  measure  superficial.  The  poetry  which  once  grew  in  the  bosoms 
of  a  people  is  always  capable  of  being  revived  by  a  skilful  hand. 
When  the  brilliant  and  poignant  lines  of  Pope  began  to  pall  on  the 
public  ear,  it  was  natural  that  we  should  revert  to  the  cultivation  of 
our  indigenous  poetry. 

"  Nor  was  this  the  sole,  or  perhaps  the  chief  agent  which  was  work 
ing  a  poetical  change.  As  the  condition  and  character  of  the  former 
age  had  produced  an  argumentative,  didactic,  sententious,  prudential 
and  satirical  poetry,  so  the  approaches  to  a  new  order  (or  rather  at 
first  disorder)  in  political  society  were  attended  by  correspondent 
movements  in  the  poetical  world.  Bolder  speculations  began  to  pre 
vail.  A  combination  of  the  science  and  art  of  the  tranquil  period 
with  the  hardy  enterprises  of  that  which  succeeded  gave  rise  to 
scientific  poems,  in  which  a  bold  attempt  was  made,  by  the  mere 
force  of  diction,  to  give  a  political  interest  and  elevation  to  the  cold 
est  parts  of  knowledge,  and  to  those  arts  which  have  been  hitherto 
considered  as  the  meanest.  Having  been  forced  above  their  natural 
place  by  the  wonder  at  first  elicited,  they  have  not  yet  recovered  from 
the  subsequent  depression.  Nor  will  a  similar  attempt  be  successful, 
without  a  more  temperate  use  of  power  over  style,  till  the  diffusion 
of  physical  knowledge  renders  it  familiar  to  the  popular  imagina 
tion,  and  till  the  prodigies  worked  by  the  mechanical  arts  shall  have 
bestowed  on  them  a  character  of  grandeur. 

"  As  the  agitation  of  men's  minds  approached  the  period  of  an 
explosion,  its  effects  on  literature  become  more  visible.  The  desire 
of  strong  emotion  succeeded  to  the  solicitude  to  avoid  disgust.  Fic 
tions,  both  dramatic  and  narrative,  were  formed  according  to  the 
school  of  Rousseau  and  Goethe.  The  mixture  of  comic  and  tragic 
pictures  once  more  displayed  itself,  as  in  the  ancient  and  national 
drama.  The  sublime  and  energetic  feelings  of  devotion  began  to  be 
more  frequently  associated  with  poetry.  The  tendency  of  political 
speculation  concurred  in  directing  the  mind  of  the  poet  to  the  intense 
and  undisguised  passions  of  the  uneducated,  which  fastidious  polite 
ness  had  excluded  from  the  subjects  of  poetical  imitation.  The  his 
tory  of  nations  unlike  ourselves,  the  fantastic  mythology  and  fero 
cious  superstition  of  distant  times  and  countries,  or  the  legends  of 
our  own  antique  faith,  and  the  romances  of  our  fabulous  and  heroic 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERST*  19 

ages,  became  themes  of  poetry.  Traces  of  a  higher  order  of  feeling 
appeared  in  the  contemplations  in  which  the  poet  indulged,  and  in 
the  events  and  scenes  which  he  delighted  to  describe.  The  fire  with 
which  a  chivalrous  tale  was  told  made  the  reader  inattentive  to 
negligences  in  the  story  or  the  style.  Poetry  became  more  devout, 
more  contemplative,  more  mystical,  more  visionary,  —  more  alien 
from  the  taste  of  those  whose  poetry  is  only  a  polished  prosaic  verse, 
more  full  of  antique  superstition,  and  more  prone  to  daring  inno 
vation, —  painting  both  coarser  realities  and  purer  imaginations 
than  she  had  before  hazarded,  — sometimes  buried  in  the  profound 
quiet  required  by  the  dreams  of  fancy,  sometimes  turbulent  and 
martial,  —  seeking  'fierce  wars  and  faithful  loves'  in  those  times 
long  past,  when  the  frequency  of  the  most  dreadful  dangers  produced 
heroic  energy  and  the  ardor  of  faithful  affection. 

"  Even  the  direction  given  to  the  traveller  by  the  accidents  of  war 
has  not  been  without  its  influence.  Greece,  the  mother  of  freedom 
and  of  poetry  in  the  West,  which  had  long  employed  only  the  anti 
quary,  the  artist  and  the  philologist,  was  at  length  destined,  after 
an  interval  of  many  silent  and  inglorious  ages,  to  awaken  the  genius 
of  a  poet.  Full  of  enthusiasm  for  those  perfect  forms  of  heroism  and 
liberty  which  his  imagination  had  placed  in  the  recesses  of  antiquity, 
he  gave  vent  to  his  impatience  of  the  imperfections  of  living  men  and 
real  institutions  in  an  original  strain  of  sublime  satire,  which  clothes 
moral  anger  in  imagery  of  an  almost  horrible  grandeur  ;  and  which, 
though  it  cannot  coincide  with  the  estimate  of  reason,  yet  could  only 
flow  from  that  worship  of  perfection  which  is  the  soul  of  all  true 
poetry. 

"  The  tendency  of  poetry  to  become  national  was  in  more  than  one 
case  remarkable.  While  the  Scottish  middle  age  inspired  the  most 
popular  poet,  perhaps,  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  national  genius 
of  Ireland  at  length  found  a  poetical  representative,  whose  exquisite 
ear,  and  flexible  fancy,  wantoned  in  all  the  varieties  of  poetical  lux 
ury,  from  the  levities  to  the  fondness  of  love,  from  polished  pleas 
antry  to  ardent  passion,  and  from  the  social  joys  of  private  life  to  a 
tender  and  mournful  patriotism,  taught  by  the  melancholy  fortunes 
of  an  illustrious  country,  —  with  a  range  adapted  to  every  nerve  in 
the  composition  of  a  people  susceptible  of  all  feelings  which  have  the 


20  MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

color  of  generosity,  and  more  exempt,  probably,  than  any  other  from 
degrading  and  unpoetical  vices. 

"  The  failure  of  innumerable  adventurers  is  inevitable,  in  literary, 
as  well  as  in  political,  revolutions.  The  inventor  seldom  perfects  his 
invention.  The  uncoutlmess  of  the  novelty,  the  clumsiness  with 
which  it  is  managed  by  an  unpractised  hand,  and  the  dogmatical 
contempt  of  criticism  natural  to  the  pride  and  enthusiasm  of  the 
innovator,  combine  to  expose  him  to  ridicule,  and  generally  termi 
nate  in  his  being  admired  (though  warmly)  by  a  few  of  his  contem 
poraries,  remembered  only  occasionally  in  after  times,  and  sup 
planted  in  general  estimation  by  more  cautious  and  skilful  imitators. 
With  the  very  reverse  of  unfriendly  feelings,  we  observe  that  errone 
ous  theories  respecting  poetical  diction,  —  exclusive  and  prescriptive 
notions  in  criticism,  which,  in  adding  new  provinces  to  poetry,  would 
deprive  her  of  ancient  dominions  and  lawful  instruments  of  rule,  — 
and  a  neglect  of  that  extreme  regard  to  general  sympathy,  and  even 
accidental  prejudice,  which  is  necessary  to  guard  poetical  novelties 
against  their  natural  enemy,  the  satirist,  —  have  powerfully  counter 
acted  an  attempt,  equally  moral  and  philosophical,  made  by  a  writer 
of  undisputed  poetical  genius,  to  enlarge  the  territories  of  art,  by 
unfolding  the  poetical  interest  which  lies  latent  in  the  common  acts 
of  the  humblest  men,  and  in  the  most  ordinary  modes  of  feeling,  as 
well  as  in  the  most  familiar  scenes  of  nature. 

"  The  various  opinions  which  may  naturally  be  formed  of  the  merit 
of  individual  writers  form  no  necessary  part  of  our  consideration. 
We  consider  the  present  as  one  of  the  most  flourishing  periods  of 
English  poetry  ;  but  those  who  condemn  all  contemporary  poets 
need  not  on  that  account  dissent  from  our  speculations.  It  is  suffi 
cient  to  have  proved  the  reality,  and  in  part  perhaps  to  have  ex 
plained  the  origin,  of  a  literary  revolution.  At  no  time  does  the 
success  of  writers  bear  so  uncertain  a  proportion  to  their  genius,  as 
when  the  rules  of  judging  and  the  habits  of  feeling  are  unsettled. 

"  It  is  not  uninteresting,  even  as  a  matter  of  speculation,  to  observe 
the  fortune  of  a  poem  which,  like  The  Pleasures  of  Memory,  appeared 
at  the  commencement  of  this  literary  revolution,  without  paying 
court  to  the  revolutionary  tastes,  or  seeking  distinction  by  resistance 
to  them.  It  borrowed  no  aid  either  from  prejudice  or  innovation. 
It  neither  copied  the  fashion  of  the  age  which  was  passing  away,  nor 


MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL   ROGERS.  21 

offered  any  homage  to  the  rising  novelties.  It  resembles,  only  in 
measure,  the  poems  of  the  eighteenth  century,  which  were  written 
in  heroic  rhyme.  Neither  the  brilliant  sententiousness  of  Pope,  nor 
the  frequent  languor  and  negligence  perhaps  inseparable  from  the 
exquisite  nature  of  Goldsmith,  could  be  traced  in  a  poem  from 
which  taste  and  labor  equally  banished  mannerism  and  inequality. 
It  was  patronized  by  no  sect  or  faction.  It  was  neither  imposed  on 
the  public  by  any  literary  cabal,  nor  forced  into  notice  by  the  noisy 
anger  of  conspicuous  enemies.  Yet,  destitute  as  it  was  of  every 
foreign  help,  it  acquired  a  popularity  originally  very  great ;  and 
which  has  not  only  continued  amidst  extraordinary  fluctuation  of 
general  taste,  but  has  increased  amid  a  succession  of  formidable  com 
petitors.  No  production,  so  popular,  was  probably  ever  so  little 
censured  by  criticism  ;  and  thus  is  combined  the  applause  of  contem 
poraries  with  the  suffrage  of  the  representatives  of  posterity. 

"  It  is  needless  to  make  extracts  from  a  poem  which  is  familiar  to 
every  reader.  In  selection,  indeed,  no  two  readers  would  probably 
agree  ;  but  the  description  of  the  Gypsies,  of  the  Boy  quitting  his 
Father's  house,  and  of  the  Savoyard  recalling  the  mountainous 
scenery  of  his  country,  and  the  descriptive  commencement  of  the 
tale  in  Cumberland,  have  remained  most  deeply  impressed  on  our 
minds.  We  should  be  disposed  to  quote  the  following  verses,  as  not 
surpassed,  in  pure  and  chaste  elegance,  by  any  English  lines  : 

'  When  Joy's  bright  sun  has  shed  his  evening  ray, 
And  Hope's  delusive  meteors  cease  to  play  ; 
When  clouds  on  clouds  the  smiling  prospect  close, 
Still  through  the  gloom  thy  star  serenely  glows 
Like  yon  fair  orb  she  gilds  the  brow  of  Night 
With  the  mild  magic  of  reflected  light.' 

"  The  conclusion  of  the  fine  passage  on  the  Veterans  at  Greenwich 
and  Chelsea  has  a  pensive  dignity  which  beautifully  corresponds 
with  the  scene  : 

'Long  have  ye  known  Reflection's  genial  ray 
Gild  the  calm  close  of  Valor's  various  day.' 


22  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

"  And  we  cannot  resist  the  pleasure  of  quoting  the  moral,  tender, 
and  elegant  lines  which  close  the  poem  : 

« Lighter  than  air,  Hope's  summer-visions  fly, 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky  ; 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 
Lo  !  Fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away ! 
But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 
*  Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  1 

These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight, 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light  ; 
And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest, 
Where  Virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest ! ' 

"  The  descriptive  passages  require,  indeed,  a  closer  inspection,  and  a 
more  exercised  eye,  than  those  of  some  celebrated  contemporaries  who 
sacrifice  elegance  to  effect,  and  whose  figures  stand  out,  in  bold  relief, 
from  the  general  roughness  of  their  more  unfinished  compositions  ; 
and  in  the  moral  parts  there  is  often  discoverable  a  Virgilian  art, 
which  suggests,  rather  than  displays,  the  various  and  contrasted 
scenes  of  human  life,  and  adds  to  the  power  of  language  by  a  certain 
air  of  reflection  and  modesty,  in  the  preference  of  measured  terms  to 
those  of  more  apparent  energy. 

"  In  the  View  from  the  House,  the  scene  is  neither  delightful  from 
very  superior  beauty,  nor  striking  by  singularity,  nor  powerful  from 
reminding  us  of  terrible  passions  or  memorable  deeds.  It  consists  of 
the  more  ordinary  of  the  beautiful  features  of  nature,  neither  exag 
gerated  nor  represented  with  curious  minuteness,  but  exhibited  with 
picturesque  elegance,  in  connection  with  those  tranquil  emotions 
which  they  call  up  in  the  calm  order  of  a  virtuous  mind,  in  every 
condition  of  society  and  of  life.  The  verses  on  the  Torso  are  in  a 
more  severe  style.  The  Fragment  of  a  divine  artist,  which  awakened 
the  genius  of  Michael  Angelo,  seems  to  disdain  ornament.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  name  two  small  poems,  by  the  same  writer,  in  which 
he  has  attained  such  high  degrees  of  kinds  of  excellence  so  dissimi 
lar,  as  are  seen  in  the  Sick  Chamber  and  the  Butterfly.  The  first 
has  a  truth  of  detail,  which,  considered  merely  as  painting,  is  admir 
able  ;  but  assumes  a  higher  character,  when  it  is  felt  to  be  that 
minute  remembrance  with  which  affection  recollects  every  circum- 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  23 

stance  that  could  have  affected  a  beloved  sufferer.  Though  the 
morality  which  concludes  the  second  be  in  itself  very  beautiful,  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  the  verses  would  not  have  left  a  more  un 
mixed  delight,  if  the  address  had  remained  as  a  mere  sport  of  fancy, 
without  the  seriousness  of  an  object,  or  an  application.  The  verses 
written  in  Westminster  Abbey  are  surrounded  by  dangerous  recol 
lections  ;  they  aspire  to  commemorate  Fox.  and  to  copy  some  of  the 
grandest  thoughts  in  the  most  sublime  work  of  Bossuet.  Nothing 
can  satisfy  the  expectation  awakened  by  such  names  ;  yet  we  are 
assured  that  there  are  some  of  them  which  would  be  envied  by  the 
best  writers  of  this  age.  The  scenery  of  Loch  Long  is  among  the 
grandest  in  Scotland  ;  and  the  description  of  it  shows  the  power  of 
feeling  and  painting.  In  this  island  the  taste  for  nature  has  grown 
with  the  progress  of  refinement.  It  is  most  alive  in  those  who  are 
most  brilliantly  distinguished  in  social  and  active  life.  It  elevates 
the  mind  above  the  meanness  which  it  might  contract  in  the  rival- 
ship  for  praise  ;  and  preserves  those  habits  of  reflection  and  sensi 
bility,  which  receive  so  many  rude  shocks  in  the  coarse  contests  of 
the  world.  Not  many  summer  hours  can  be  passed  in  the  most 
mountainous  solitudes  of  Scotland,  without  meeting  some  who  are 
worthy  to  be  remembered  with  the  sublime  objects  of  nature  which 
they  had  travelled  so  far  to  admire. 

"  The  most  conspicuous  of  the  novelties  of  this  volume  is  the  poem, 
or  poems,  entitled  'Fragments  of  the  Voyage  of  Columbus.'  The 
subject  of  this  poem  is,  politically  or  philosophically  considered, 
among  the  most  important  in  the  annals  of  mankind.  The  intro 
duction  of  Christianity  (humanly  viewed),  the  irruption  of  the 
northern  barbarians,  the  contest  between  the  Christian  and  Mussul 
man  nations  in  Syria,  the  two  inventions  of  gunpowder  and  printing, 
the  emancipation  of  the  human  understanding  by  the  Reformation, 
the  discovery  of  America,  and  of  a  maritime  passage  to  Asia,  in  the 
last  ten  years  of  the  fifteenth  century,  are  the  events  which  have 
produced  the  greatest  and  most  durable  effects  since  the  establish 
ment  of  civilization,  and  the  consequent  commencement  of  authentic 
history.  But  the  poetical  capabilities  of  an  event  bear  no  proportion 
to  historical  importance.  None  of  the  consequences  that  do  not  strike 
the  senses  or  the  fancy  can  interest  the  poet.  The  greatest  of  the 
transactions  above  enumerated  is  obviously  incapable  of  entering  into 


24  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

poetry.  The  Crusades  were  not  without  permanent  effects  on  the 
state  of  men  ;  but  their  poetical  interest  does  not  arise  from  these 
effects,  and  it  immeasurably  surpasses  them. 

"  Whether  the  voyage  of  Columbus  be  destined  to  be  forever  inca 
pable  of  becoming  the  subject  of  an  epic  poem,  is  a  question  which  we 
have  scarcely  the  means  of  answering.  The  success  of  great  writers 
has  often  so  little  corresponded  with  the  promise  of  their  subject, 
that  we  might  be  almost  tempted  to  think  the  choice  of  a  subject 
indifferent.  The  story  of  Hamlet,  or  of  Paradise  Lost,  would  before 
hand  have  been  pronounced  to  be  unmanageable.  Perhaps  the  genius 
of  Shakspeare  and  of  Milton  has  rather  compensated  for  the  incorri 
gible  defects  of  ungrateful  subjects,  than  conquered  them.  The 
course  of  ages  may  produce  the  poetical  genius,  the  historical  mate 
rials  and  the  national  feelings,  for  an  American  epic  poem.  There 
is  yet  but  one  state  in  America,  and  that  state  is  hardly  become  a 
nation.  At  some  future  period,  when  every  part  of  the  continent 
has  been  the  scene  of  memorable  events,  when  the  discovery  and  con 
quest  have  receded  into  that  legendary  dimness  which  allows  fancy 
to  mould  them  at  her  pleasure,  the  early  history  of  America  may 
afford  scope  for  the  genius  of  a  thousand  national  poets  ;  and  while 
some  may  soften  the  cruelty  which  darkens  the  daring  energy  of 
Cortez  and  Pizarro,  —  while  others  may,  in  perhaps  new  forms  of 
poetry,  ennoble  the  pacific  conquests  of  Penn,  —  and  while  the  gen 
ius,  the  exploits,  and  the  fate  of  Raleigh,  may  render  his  establish 
ments  probably  the  most  alluring  of  American  subjects,  every  inhab 
itant  of  the  New  World  will  turn  his  eyes  with  filial  reverence  towards 
Columbus,  and  regard  with  equal  enthusiasm  the  voyage  which  laid 
the  foundation  of  so  many  states,  and  peopled  a  continent  with  civil 
ized  men.  Most  epic  subjects,  but  especially  such  a  subject  as  Colum 
bus,  require  either  the  fire  of  an  actor  in  the  scene,  or  the  religious 
reverence  of  a  very  distant  posterity.  Homer,  as  well  as  Er§illa  and 
Camoens,  show  what  may  be  done  by  an  epic  poet  who  himself  feels 
the  passions  of  his  heroes.  It  must  not  be  denied  that  Virgil  has 
borrowed  a  color  of  refinement  from  the  court  of  Augustus,  in  paint 
ing  the  age  of  Priam  and  of  Dido.  Evander  is  a  solitary  and  exqui 
site  model  of  primitive  manners  divested  of  grossness,  without  losing 
their  simplicity.  But  to  an  European  poet,  in  this  age  of  the  world, 
the  Voyage  of  Columbus  is  too  naked,  and  too  exactly  defined  by  his- 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  25 

tory.  It  has  no  variety,  —  scarcely  any  succession  of  events.  It 
consists  of  one  scene,  during  which  two  or  three  simple  passions  con 
tinue  in  a  state  of  the  highest  excitement.  It  is  a  voyage  with  intense 
anxiety  in  every  bosom,  controlled  by  magnanimous  fortitude  in  the 
leader,  and  producing  among  his  followers  a  fear,  —  sometimes  sub 
missive,  sometimes  mutinous,  always  ignoble.  It  admits  of  no  vari 
ety  of  character,  no  unexpected  revolutions.  And  even  the  issue, 
though  of  unspeakable  importance,  and  admirably  adapted  to  some 
kinds  of  poetry,  is  not  an  event  of  such  outward  dignity  and  splendor 
as  ought  naturally  to  close  the  active  and  brilliant  course  of  an  epic 
poem. 

"  It  is  natural  that  the  Fragments  should  give  a  specimen  of  tho 
marvellous,  as  well  as  of  the  other  constituents  of  epic  fiction.  We 
may  observe  that  it  is  neither  the  intention  nor  the  tendency  of 
poetical  machinery  to  supersede  secondary  causes,  to  fetter  the  will, 
and  to  make  human  creatures  appear  as  the  mere  instruments  of 
destiny.  It  is  introduced  to  satisfy  that  insatiable  demand  for  a 
nature  more  exalted  than  that  which  we  know  by  experience,  which 
creates  all  poetry,  and  which  is  most  active  in  its  highest  species, 
and  in  its  most  perfect  productions.  It  is  not  to  account  for  thoughts 
and  feelings  that  superhuman  agents  are  brought  down  upon  earth  ; 
it  is  rather  for  the  contrary  purpose,  of  lifting  them  into  a  mysteri 
ous  dignity  beyond  the  cognizance  of  reason.  There  is  a  material 
difference  between  the  acts  which  superior  beings  perform  and  the 
sentiments  which  they  inspire.  It  is  true,  that  when  a  god  fights 
against  men,  there  can  be  no  uncertainty  or  anxiety,  and  conse 
quently  no  interest  about  the  event,  —  unless,  indeed,  in  the  rude 
theology  of  Homer,  where  Minerva  may  animate  the  Greeks,  while 
Mars  excites  the  Trojans  ;  but  it  is  quite  otherwise  with  these  divine 
persons  inspiring  passion,  or  represented  as  agents  in  the  great  phe 
nomena  of  nature.  Venus  and  Mars  inspire  love  or  valor  ;  they  give 
a  noble  origin  and  a  dignified  character  to  these  sentiments  ;  but  the 
sentiments  themselves  act  according  to  the  laws  of  our  nature  ;  and 
their  celestial  source  has  no  tendency  to  impair  their  power  over 
human  sympathy.  No  event,  which  has  not  too  much  modern  vul 
garity  to  be  susceptible  of  alliance  with  poetry,  can  be  incapable  of 
being  ennobled  by  that  eminently  poetical  art  which  ascribes  it  either 
to  the  Supreme  Will,  or  to  the  agency  of  beings  who  are  greater  than 
3 


26  MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL   110GEKS. 

human.  The  wisdom  of  Columbus  is  neither  less  venerable  nor  less 
his  own  because  it  is  supposed  to  flow  more  directly  than  that  of 
other  wise  men  from  the  inspiration  of  heaven.  The  mutiny  of  his 
seamen  is  not  less  interesting  or  formidable  because  the  poet  traces  it 
to  the  suggestion  of  those  malignant  spirits  in  whom  the  imagina 
tion,  independent  of  all  theological  doctrines,  is  naturally  prone  to 
personify  and  embody  the  causes  of  evil. 

"  Unless,  indeed,  the  marvellous  be  a  part  of  the  popular  creed  at 
the  period  of  the  action,  the  reader  of  a  subsequent  age  will  refuse 
to  sympathize  with  it.  His  poetical  faith  is  founded  in  sympathy 
with  that  of  the  poetical  personages.  Still  more  objectionable  is  a 
marvellous  influence  neither  believed  in  by  the  reader  nor  by  the 
hero  ;  —  like  a  great  part  of  the  machinery  of  the  Henriade  and  tho 
Lusiad,  which,  indeed,  is  not  only  absolutely  ineffective,  but  rather 
disennobles  heroic  fiction,  by  association  with  light  and  frivolous 
ideas.  Allegorical  persons  (if  the  expression  may  be  allowed)  are 
only  in  the'way  to  become  agents.  The  abstraction  has  received  a 
faint  outline  of  form  ;  but  it  has  not  yet  acquired  those  individual 
marks  and  characteristic  peculiarities  which  render  it  a  really  ex 
isting  being.  On  the  other  hand,  the  more  sublime  parts  of  our 
own  religion,  and  more  especially  those  which  are  common  to  all 
religion,  are  too  awful  and  too  philosophical  for  poetical  effect.  If 
we  except  Paradise  Lost,  where  all  is  supernatural,  and  where  the 
ancestors  of  the  human  race  are  not  strictly  human  beings,  it  must 
be  owned  that  no  successful  attempt  has  been  made  to  ally  a  human 
action  with  the  sublimer  principles  of  the  Christian  theology.  Some 
opinions,  which  may,  perhaps,  without  irreverence,  be  said  to  bo 
rather  appendages  to  the  Christian  system  than  essential  parts  of  it, 
are  in  that  sort  of  intermediate  state  which  fits  them  for  the  purposes 
of  poetry  ;  —  sufficiently  exalted  to  ennoble  the  human  actions  with 
which  they  are  blended,  but  not  so  exactly  defined,  nor  so  deeply 
revered,  as  to  be  inconsistent  with  the  liberty  of  imagination.  The 
guardian  angels,  in  the  project  of  Dryden,  had  the  inconvenience  of 
having  never  taken  any  deep  root  in  popular  belief ;  the  agency  of 
evil  spirits  was  firmly  believed  in  the  age  of  Columbus.  With  tho 
truth  of  facts  poetry  can  have  no  concern  ;  but  the  truth  of  manners 
is  necessary  to  its  persons.  If  the  minute  investigations  of  the  Notes 
to  this  poem  had  related  to  historical  details,  they  would  have  been 


MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS.  27 

insignificant ;  but  they  are  intended  to  justify  the  human  and  the 
supernatural  parts  of  it,  by  an  appeal  to  the  manners  and  to  the 
opinions  of  the  age. 

"  Perhaps  there  is  no  volume  in  our  language  of  which  it  can  be  so 
truly  said  as  of  the  present  that  it  is  equally  exempt  from  the  frail- 
tics  of  negligence  and  the  vices  of  aflectation.  Exquisite  polish  of 
style  is,  indeed,  more  admired  by  the  artist  than  by  the  people.  The 
gentle  and  elegant  pleasure  which  it  imparts  can  only  be  felt  bv  a 
calm  reason,  an  exercised  taste,  and  a  mind  free  from  turbulent  pas 
sions.  But  these  beauties  of  execution  can  exist  only  in  combination 
with  much  of  the  primary  beauties  of  thought  and  feeling  ;  and  poets 
of  the  first  rank  depend  on  them  for  no  small  part  of  the  perpetuity 
of  their  fame.  In  poetry,  though  not  in  eloquence,  it  is  less  to  rouse 
the  passions  of  a  moment  than  to  satisfy  the  taste  of  all  ages. 

"  In  estimating  the  poetical  rank  of  Mr.  Rogers,  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  popularity  never  can  arise  from  elegance  alone.  The 
vices  of  a  poem  may  render  it  popular  ;  and  virtues  of  a  faint  char 
acter  maybe  sufficient  to  preserve  a  languishing  and  cold  reputation. 
But,  to  bo  both  popular  poets  and  classical  writers  is  the  rare  lot  of 
those  few  who  are  released  from  all  solicitude  about  their  literary 
lame.  It  often  happens  to  successful  writers  that  the  lustre  of  their 
first  productions  throws  a  temporary  cloud  over  some  of  those  which 
follow.  Of  all  literary  misfortunes,  this  is  the  most  easily  endured, 
and  the  most  speedily  repaired.  It  is  generally  no  more  than  a 
momentary  illusion  produced  by  disappointed  admiration,  which 
expected  more  from  the  talents  of  the  admired  writer  than  any  tal 
ents  could  perform.  Mr.  Rogers  has  long  passed  that  period  of 
probation  during  which  it  may  be  excusable  to  feel  some  painful 
solicitude  about  the  reception  of  every  new  work.  Whatever  may 
be  the  rank  assigned  hereafter  to  his  writings,  when  compared  with 
each  other,  the  writer  has  most  certainly  taken  his  place  among  the 
classical  poets  of  his  country." 

This  was,  no  doubt,  a  very  acceptable  offset  to  a  critique  on  the 
same  poem  which  had  found  its  way  into  the  Quarterly  Review  for 
the  month  of  March,  in  the  same  year.  It  was  written  by  Mr. 
Ward,  afterwards  Lord  Dudley,  and  was  alluded  to  many  years 
afterwards  by  the  Quarterly,  as  a  "  masterpiece  of  damning  by  faint 


28  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

praise."  The  review  nettled  the  poet  not  a  little,  as  we  learn  from 
a  letter  of  Byron's,  written  in  September  : 

"  Rogers  has  returned  to  town,  but  not  yet  recovered  of  the  Quar 
terly.  What  fellows  these  reviewers  are !  *  These  boys  do  fear  us 
all !  '  They  made  you  fight,  and  me  (the  milkiest  of  men)  a  satirist, 
and  will  end  by  making  Rogers  madder  than  Ajax.  I  have  been 
reading  Memory  again,  the  other  day,  and  Hope  together,  and  retain 
all  mv  preference  of  the  former.  His  elegance  is  really  wonderful ; 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  vulgar  line  in  the  book.  *  *  Rogers 
wants  me  to  go  with  him  on  a  crusade  to  the  Lakes,  and  to  besiege 
you  on  our  way.  This  last  is  a  great  temptation,  but  I  fear  it  will 
not  be  in  my  power,  unless  you  would  go  on  with  one  of  us  some 
where  —  no  matter  where. 

"  P.  S.  No  letter — n'importe.  Rogers  thinks  the  Quarterly  will 
be  at  me  this  time  ;  if  so,  it  shall  be  a  war  of  extermination  —  no 
quarter.  From  the  youngest  devil  down  to  the  oldest  woman  of  that 
review,  all  shall  perish  by  one  fatal  lampoon.  The  ties  of  nature 
shall  be  torn  asunder,  for  I  will  not  even  spare  my  bookseller  ;  nay, 
if  one  were  to  include  readers  also,  all  the  better." 

We  do  not  know  if  this  review  prompted  a  celebrated  epigram 
upon  its  author  by  the  offended  poet,  or  if  the  epigram  prompted 
the  review.  From  an  allusion  to  it  in  Medwin's  Conversations  with 
Lord  Byron,  we  should  imagine  that  the  poet  revenged  himself  by 
the  satire  ;  but  from  an  allusion  in  the  Quarterly  Review  we  infer 
that  Rogers  was  the  first  offender.  "  Rogers  is  the  only  man,"  said 
his  lordship  to  Captain  Medwin,  "  who  can  write  epigrams,  and  sharp 
bone-cutters,  too,  in  two  lines."  For  instance,  that  on  an  M.P.  who 
had  reviewed  his  book,  and  said  he  wrote  very  well  for  a  banker  : 

"  Ward  has  no  heart,  they  say,  but  I  deny  it ; 
He  has  a  heart,  and  gets  his  speeches  by  it." 

The  Quarterly  says  that  Ward  would  sometimes  quote  this  dis 
tich,  admit  the  point,  and  return  usually  a  Roland  for  an  Oliver- 
But  even  Mr.  Ward  did  not  fail  to  recognize  the  position  which  the 
poet  had  already  secured  by  The  Pleasures  of  Memory.  "  The  first 
poem  in  this  collection,"  ho  says,  "  does  not  fall  within  the  province 
of  our  criticism.  It  has  been  published  many  years,  and  has  ac- 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  29 

quired  that  sort  of  popularity  which  is,  perhaps,  more  decisive  than 
any  other  single  test  of  merit.  It  has  been  generally  admired,  and, 
what  is  not  always  a  certain  consequence  of  being  admired,  it  has 
been  generally  read.  The  circulation  of  it  has  not  been  confined  to 
the  highly-educated  and  critical  part  of  the  public,  but  it  has  re 
ceived  the  applause  which  to  works  of  the  imagination  is  quite  as 
flattering,  —  of  that  far  more  numerous  class,  who,  without  attempt 
ing  to  judge  by  accurate  and  philosophical  rules,  read  poetry  only 
for  the  pleasure  it  affords  them,  and  praise  because  they  are  delighted. 
It  is  to  be  found  in  all  libraries,  and  in  most  parlor  windows."  In 
another  part  of  the  review,  the  critic  says,  "  Endowed  with  an  ear 
naturally  correct,  and  attuned  by  practice  to  the  measures  of  his 
favorite  masters,  nice  to  the  very  verge  of  fastidiousness,  accurate 
almost  to  minuteness,  habitually  attentive  to  the  finer  turns  of  ex 
pression  and  the  more  delicate  shades  of  thought,  Mr.  Rogers  was 
always  harmonious,  always  graceful,  and  often  pathetic.  But  his 
beauties  are  all  beauties  of  execution  and  detail,  arising  from  the 
charm  of  skilful  versification,  the  '  curiosa  felicitas  '  of  expression, 
culled  with  infinite  care  and  selection,  and  applied  with  no  vulgar 
judgment,  and  with  the  refined  tenderness  of  a  polished  and  feeling 
mind." 

We  must  now  cite  a  few  sentences  in  a  different  vein,  to  show  how 
far  the  Quarterly  was  right  in  its  estimate  of  this  critique,  and  to 
what  extent  it  might  well  have  annoyed  the  poet.  "  We  have  always 
been  desirous,"  says  the  reviewer,  after  alluding  to  the  poet's  early 
productions,  "  to  see  something  more  from  the  hand  of  an  author 
whose  first  appearance  was  so  auspicious.  But  year  after  year 
rolled  on,  and  we  began  to  fear  that  indolence,  the  occupations  of  a 
busy  life,  or  the  dread  of  detracting  from  a  reputation  already  so 
high,  would  forever  prevent  our  wishes  from  being  gratified.  We 
\vere,  therefore,  both  pleased  and  surprised  when,  upon  accidentally 
taking  up  the  last  edition  of  Mr.  Rogers'  poem,  we  found  that  it  was 
enriched,  not  only  with  several  very  elegant  wooden  cuts,  but  with  an 
entirely  new  performance  in  eleven  cantos,  called  '  Fragments  of  a 
Poem  on  the  Voyage  of  Columbus.'  ': 

After  a  minute  analysis  of  the  poem,  the  critic  thus  sums  up  its 
merits  and  faults  :  "  Still,  however,  and  with  all  its  defects  both 
of  subject  and  of  execution,  the  poem  is  by  no  means  undeserving 
3* 


30  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

attention.  Mr.  Rogers  has  not  been  able  to  depart  from  his  former 
manner,  that  which  use  had  made  natural  to  him,  so  much  as  he, 
perhaps,  intended.  He  is  often  himself,  in  spite  of  himself.  Habit, 
good  taste  and  an  exquisite  ear,  are  constantly  bringing  him  back  to 
the  right  path,  even  when  he  had  set  out  with  a  resolution  to  wander 
from  it.  Hence,  though  the  poem  will  not  bear  to  be  looked  at  as  a 
whole,  and  though  there  runs  through  it  an  affectation  of  bea,uties 
which  it  is  not  in  the  author's  power  to  produce,  yet  it  contains 
passages  of  such  merit  as  would  amply  repay  the  trouble  of  reading 
a  much  larger  and  more  faulty  work.  It  will  be  the  more  pleasing 
part  of  our  task  to  select  a  few  of  them,  with  an  assurance  to  our 
readers  that  they  are  not  the  only  ones,  and  with  a  strong  recom 
mendation  to  read  the  whole,  —  a  recommendation  with  which  they 
will  very  easily  comply,  as  the  poem  does  not  exceed  seven  or  eight 
hundred  lines." 

In  this  connection  the  following  contemporaneous  memoranda  of 
Lord  Byron's,  touching  the  poet  and  his  critic,  will  be  read  with 
interest  : 

" Nov.  22, 1813.  —  Rogers  is  silent ;  and,  it  is  said,  severe.  When 
he  does  talk,  he  talks  well ;  and,  on  all  subjects  of  taste,  his  delicacy 
of  expression  is  pure  as  his  poetry.  If  you  enter  his  house,  his  draw 
ing-room,  his  library,  you  of  yourself  say,  this  is  not  the  dwelling  of 
a  common  mind.  There  is  not  a  gem,  a  coin,  a  book  thrown  aside 
on  his  chimney-piece,  his  sofa,  his  table,  that  does  not  bespeak  an 
almost  fastidious  elegance  in  the  possessor.  But  this  very  delicacy 
must  be  the  misery  of  his  existence.  0,  the  jarrings  his  disposition 
must  have  encountered  through  life  ! 

"Nov.  23.  —  Ward.  I  like  Ward.  By  Mahomet!  I  begin  to 
think  I  like  everybody,  —  a  disposition  not  to  be  encouraged ;  a  sort 
of  social  gluttony  that  swallows  everything  set  before  it.  But  I  like 
Ward.  He  is  piquant;  and,  in  my  opinion,  will  stand  very  high  in 
the  house,  and  everywhere  else,  if  he  applies  regularly.  By  the  by, 
I  dine  with  him  to-morrow,  which  may  have  some  influence  on  my 
opinion.  It  is  as  well  not  to  trust  one's  gratitude  after  dinner.  1 
have  heard  many  a  host  libelled  by  his  guests,  with  his  Burgundy 
yet  reeking  on  their  rascally  lips." 

In  1814  the  poem  of  Jacqueline  appeared,  in  the  same  volume  with 
the  Lara  of  Lord  Byron. 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS.  31 

"  Rogers  and  I,"  wrote  his  lordship  to  Moore,  in  July,  1814, 
"  have  almost  coalesced  into  a  joint  invasion  of  the  public.  Whether 
it  will  take  place  or  not,  I  do  not  yet  know  ;  and  I  am  afraid  Jac 
queline  (which  is  very  beautiful)  will  be  in  bad  company.  But  in 
this  case  the  lady  will  not  be  the  sufferer."  To  the  author  he  had 
written  a  few  days  previously  :  "  You  could  not  have  made  me  a 
more  acceptable  present  than  Jacqueline  ;  she  is  all  grace,  and  soft 
ness,  and  poetry  ;  there  is  so  much  of  the  last  that  we  do  not  feel 
the  want  of  story,  which  is  simple,  yet  enough.  I  wonder  that  you 
do  not  oftener  unbend  to  more  of  the  same  kind.  I  have  some  sym 
pathy  with  the  softer  affections,  though  very  little  in  my  way  ;  and 
no  one  can  depict  them  so  truly  and  successfully  as  yourself.  I  have 
half  a  mind  to  pay  you  in  kind,  or  rather  un-kind,  for  I  have  just 
'  supped  full  of  horror  '  in  two  cantos  of  darkness  and  dismay."  In 
August  he  wrote  to  Moore,  "  Rogers  I  have  not  seen,  but  Larry  and 
Jacky  came  out  a  few  days  ago.  Of  their  effect  I  know  nothing." 
He  adds  in  the  same  letter,  "  Murray  talks  of  divorcing  Larry  and 
Jacky, — -a  bad  sign  for  the  authors,  who,  I  suppose,  will  be  divorced 
too,  and  throw  the  blame  upon  one  another.  Seriously,  I  don't 
care  a  cigar  about  it,  and  I  don't  see  why  Sam  should." 

"  I  believe  I  told  you  of  Larry  and  Jacky,"  he  again  wrote  to 
Moore.  "  A  friend  of  mine  was  reading  —  at  least  a  friend  of  his 
was  reading  —  said  Larry  and  Jacky,  in  a  Brighton  coach.  A  pas 
senger  took  up  the  book,  and  queried  as  to  the  author.  The  proprie 
tor  said  '  there  were  two,'  to  which  the  answer  of  the  unknown  was 
'  Ay,  ay,  a  joint  concern,  I  suppose  ;  summat  like  Sternhold  and 
Hopkins.'  Is  not  this  excellent  ?  I  would  not  have  missed  the  '  vile 
comparison  '  to  have  'scaped  being  one  of  the  '  arcades  ambo,  et  can- 
tare  pares.'  " 

Byron  seems  to  have  lived  on  terms  of  the  most  cordial  intimacy 
with  Rogers,  who  is  one  of  the  few  persons  of  whom  he  always  spoke 
with  kindness  and  respect.  The  full-length  portrait  of  his  lordship, 
by  Sanders,  was  presented  to  him.  "  You  are  one  of  the  few  per 
sons,"  Byron  wrote  to  him  in  March,  1816,  "  with  whom  I  have  lived 
in  what  is  called  intimacy."  "It  is  a  considerable  time,"  Byron 
wrote  in  the  year  following,  "  since  I  wrote  to  you  last,  and  I  hardly 
know  why  I  should  trouble  you  now,  except  that  I  think  you  will  not 
be  sorry  to  hear  from  me  now  and  then.  You  and  I  were  never 


32  MEM'OIR  OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

correspondents,  but  always  something  better,  which  is  very  good 
friends." 

His  diaries  and  letters  frequently  refer  to  their  social  meetings. 
"  On  Tuesday  last,"  he  writes  under  date  of  March  6,  1814,  "  I 
dined  with  Rogers,  —  Madame  de  Stae'l,  Mackintosh,  Sheridan,  Ers- 
kine  and  Payne  Knight,  Lady  Donegal  and  Miss  R.,  there.  Sheri 
dan  told  a  very  good  story  of  himself  and  Madame  de  Recamier's 
handkerchief;  Erskine  a  few  stories  of  himself  only.  *  *  The 
party  went  off  very  well,  and  the  fish  was  very  much  to  my  gusto. 
But  we  got  up  too  soon  after  the  women  ;  and  Mrs.  Corinne  always 
lingers  so  long  after  dinner,  that  we  wish  her  in the  drawing- 
room."  The  next  week  he  makes  another  entry.  "  On  Tuesday 
dined  with  Rogers,  Mackintosh,  Sheridan,  Sharpe,  —  much  talk  and 
good,  all  except  my  own  little  prattlement.  Much  of  old  times, 
Home  Tooke,  the  Trials,  evidence  of  Sheridan,  and  anecdotes  of 
those  times,  when  J,  alas !  was  an  infant." 

Of  the  nature  of  the  relations  between  his  lordship,  Rogers,  and 
their  common  friend  Moore,  the  last  mentioned  gives  us  a  vivid  im 
pression  in  his  account  of  an  evening  in  St.  James'-street.  We  quote 
from  Moore's  Life  of  Byron  : 

"  Among  the  many  gay  hours  we  passed  together  this  spring 
(1813),  I  remember  particularly  the  wild  flow  of  his  spirits  one 
evening,  when  we  had  accompanied  Mr.  Rogers  home  from  some 
early  assembly,  and  when  Lord  Byron,  who,  according  to  his  fre 
quent  custom,  had  not  dined  for  the  last  two  days,  found  his  hunger 
no  longer  governable,  and  called  aloud  for  '  something  to  eat.'  Our 
repast,  of  his  own  choosing,  was  simple  bread  and  cheese  ;  and  sel 
dom  have  I  partaken  of  so  joyous  a  supper.  It  happened  that  our 
host  had  just  received  a  presentation  copy  of  a  volume  of  poems, 
written  professedly  in  imitation  of  the  old  English  writers,  and  con 
taining,  like  many  of  these  models,  a  good  deal  that  was  striking  and 
beautiful,  mixed  up  with  much  that  was  trifling,  fantastic  and  ab 
surd.  In  our  mood  at  the  moment,  it  was  only  with  these  latter 
qualities  that  either  Lord  Byron  or  I  felt  disposed  to  indulge  our 
selves  ;  and,  in  turning  over  the  pages,  we  found,  it  must  be  owned, 
abundant  matter  for  mirth.  In  vain  did  Mr.  Rogers,  in  justice  to 
the  author,  endeavor  to  direct  our  attention  to  some  of  the  beauties 
fif  the  work.  It  suited  better  our  purpose  (as  is  too  often  the  case 


MEMOIR    OF   SAMUEL    R 


with  more  deliberate  critics) ,  to  pounce  only  on  such  passages  as 
ministered  to  the  laughing  humor  that  possessed  us.  In  this  sort  of 
hunt  through  the  volume,  we  at  length  lighted  on  the  discovery  that 
our  host,  in  addition  to  his  sincere  approbation  of  some  of  its  con 
tents,  had  also  the  motive  of  gratitude  for  standing  by  its  author,  as 
one  of  the  poems  was  a  warm,  and,  I  need  not  add,  well-deserved 
panegyric  on  himself.  We  were,  however,  too  far  gone  in  nonsense, 
for  even  this  eulogy,  in  which  we  both  heartily  agreed,  to  stop  us. 
The  opening  line  of  the  poem  was,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect,  '  When 
Rogers  o'er  this  labor  bent.'  And  Lord  Byron  undertook  to  read  it 
aloud  ;  but  he  found  it  impossible  to  get  beyond  the  first  two  words. 
Our  laughter  had  now  increased  to  such  a  pitch  that  nothing  could 
restrain  it.  Two  or  three  times  he  began  ;  but  no  sooner  had  the 
words  '  When  Rogers  '  passed  his  lips,  than  our  fit  burst  forth  afresh, 
till  even  Mr.  Rogers  himself,  with  all  his  feeling  of  our  injustice, 
found  it  impossible  not  to  join  us  ;  and  we  were,  at  last,  all  three  in 
such  a  state  of  inextinguishable  laughter,  that,  had  the  author  him 
self  been  of  the  party,  I  question  much  whether  he  could  have  resisted 
the  infection." 

Byron  always  entertained  and  expressed  an  elevated  opinion  of 
Rogers  as  a  man  of  taste  and  genius.  In  one  of  his  letters  to  Mooro 
he  says,  "  I  wrote  to  Rogers  the  other  day,  with  a  message  to  you. 
I  hope  that  he  nourishes.  lie  is  the  Tithonus  of  poetry,  — immortal 
already.  You  and  I.  must  wait  for  it."  Again  he  says,  "  Will  you 
remember  me  to  Rogers?  — whom  I  presume  to  be  flourishing,  and 
whom  I  regard  as  our  poetical  papa.  You  are  his  lawful  son,  and 
I  his  illegitimate."  So  in  his  journal,  under  date  of  November  24, 
1813,  Byron  writes  : 

"  I  have  not  answered  W.  Scott's  last  letter,  but  I  will.  I  regret 
to  hear  from  others  that  he  has  lately  been  unfortunate  in  pecuniary 
involvements.  lie  is,  undoubtedly,  the  Monarch  of  Parnassus,  and 
the  most  English  of  bards.  I  should  place  Rogers  next  in  the  living 
list  (I  value  him  more  as  the  last  of  the  best  school);  Moore  and 
Campbell,  both  third  ;  Southey  and  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  ;  the 
rest,  01 7t oA/.oi  —  thus  : 


34  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

W.  SCOTT. 


SOUTIIEY,  WORDSWORTH,  COLERIDGE 


Rogers  seems  to  have  cultivated  the  kindest  personal  relations  with 
most  of  his  distinguished  poetical  contemporaries.  He  was  on  the 
most  friendly  terms  with  Campbell,  who  speaks  with  cordial  warmth 
of  the  generosity  and  kindliness  of  his  nature,  and  his  constant  search 
for  opportunities  of  manifesting  his  benevolence  of  disposition.  With 
Crabbe,  also,  he  was  intimate.  This  "  sternest  painter  "  of  nature 
was  introduced  to  the  family  of  Landsdowne  by  Bowles,  the  friend 
of  his  latter  days  ;  and  here  he  became  the  acquaintance  and  friend 
of  Rogers,  who  invited  him  to  pay  a  summer  visit  to  London.  "  He 
accepted  this  invitation,  and,  taking  lodgings  near  his  new  friend's 
residence,  in  St.  James'  Place,  was  cordially  welcomed  by  the  circle 
distinguished  in  politics,  fashion,  science,  art  and  literature,  of  which 
Mr.  R.  was  himself  the  brightest  ornament."  The  following  mem 
oranda  from  Crabbe's  diary  show  how  largely  he  was  indebted  to 
the  attentions  of  Rogers  for  the  enjoyment  of  his  London  visit : 

"  June  24,  1817.  — Mr.  Rogers,  his  brother  and  family.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Moore,  very  agreeable  and  pleasant  people.  Foscolo,  the  Ital 
ian  gentleman.  Dante,  &c.  Play,  Kemble  in  Coriolanus. 

"  2Qth.  —  Mr.  Rogers,  and  the  usual  company,  at  breakfast.  Lady 
Holland  comes  and  takes  me  to  Holland  House.  *  *  Meet  Mr. 
Campbell.  Mr.  Moore  with  us.  Mr.  Rogers  joins  us  in  the  courso 
of  the  day. 

"  27 1 h.  —  Breakfast  with  Mr.  Brougham  and  Lady  Holland.    Lord 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL   ROGERS.  35 

Holland  to  speak  at  Kemble 's  retiring,  at  the  meeting  at  Freemason's 
Tavern,  to-morrow.  Difficulty  of  procuring  me  an  admission  ticket, 
as  all  are  distributed.  Trial  made  by  somebody,  I  knew  not  who, — 
failed.  This  represented  to  Lady  Holland,  who  makes  no  reply. 
Morning,  interview  with  Mr.  Brougham.  Mr.  Campbell's  letter. 
He  invites  us  to  Sydenham.  I  refer  it  to  Mr.  Rogers  and  Mr.  Moore. 
Return  to  town.  The  porter  delivers  to  me  a  paper  containing  the 
admission  ticket,  procured  by  Lady  Holland's  means  ;  whether  re 
quest  or  command,  I  know  not.  Call  on  Mr.  Rogers.  We  go  to 
the  Freemason's  Tavern.  The  room  filled.  We  find  a  place  about 
half-way  down  the  common  seats,  but  not  where  the  managers  dine, 
above  the  steps.  By  us,  Mr.  Smith,  one  of  the  authors  of  the  Re 
jected  Addresses.  Known,  but  no  introduction.  Mr.  Perry,  editor 
of  the.  Morning  Chronicle,  and  Mr.  Campbell,  find  us,  and  we  are 
invited  into  the  committee  room.  Kemble,  Perry,  Lord  Erskine,  Mr. 
Moore,  Lord  Holland,  Lord  Ossory,  who.n  I  saw  at  Holland  House. 
Dinner  announced.  Music.  Lord  Erskine  sits  between  me  and  a 
young  man  whom  I  find  to  be  a  son  of  Boswell.  Lord  Holland's 
speech  after  dinner.  The  ode  recited.  Campbell's  speech.  Kemble 's 
—  Talma's.  We  leave  the  company,  and  go  to  Vauxhall  to  meet  Miss 
Rogers  and  her  party.  Stay  late. 

"  28th.  —  Go  to  St.  James'  Place.  Lord  Byron's  new  works,  Man 
fred  and  Tasso's  Lament.  *  ^* 

"  29^ .  —  Breakfast  at  the  coffee-house  in  Pall  Mall,  and  go  to  Mr. 
Rogers  and  family.  Agree  to  dine,  and  then  join  their  party  after 
dinner. 

"  30^A.  —  First  hour  at  Mr.  Murray's.  A  much  younger  and  more 
lively  man  than  I  had  imagined.  A  handsome  drawing-room,  where 
he  receives  his  friends,  usually  from  two  to  five  o'clock.  Pictures  by 
Phillips  of  Lord  Byron,  Mr.  Scott,  Mr.  Southey,  Mr.  Campbell, 
Rogers  (yet  unfinished),  Moore,  by  Lawrence  (his  last  picture). 
Mr.  Murray  wishes  me  to  sit.  Advise  with  Mr.  Rogers.  He  recom 
mends. 

"  July  1st.  —  I  foresee  a  long  train  of  engagements.  Dine  with 
Mr.  Rogers.  Company  :  Kemble,  Lord  Erskine,  Lord  Ossory,  Sir 
George  Beaumont,  Mr.  Campbell  and  Mr.  Moore.  Miss  R.  retires 
early,  and  is  not  seen  any  more  at  home.  Meet  her  at  the  gallery  in 
Pall  Mall,  with  Mr.  Westall. 


36  MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

"  2d.  —  Duke  of  Rutland.  List  of  pictures  burned  at  Belvoir  Cas 
tle.  Dine  at  Sydenham  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Campbell,  Mr.  Moore 
and  Mr.  Rogers.  Poet's  Club. 

"  4:th. — Morning  view,  and  walk  with  Mr.  Heber  and  Mr.  Stan 
hope.  Afterwards,  Mr.  Rogers,  Lady  S.,  Lady  H.  A  good  picture, 
if  I  dare  draw  it  accurately  ;  to  place  in  lower  life  would  lose  the 
peculiarities  which  depend  upon  their  station  ;  yet,  in  any  station. 
Return  with  Mr.  Rogers.  Dine  at  Landsdowne  House.  Sir  James 
Mackintosh,  Mr.  Grenville,  elder  brother  to  Lord  Grenville.  *  * 

"  $th.  —  Call  at  Mr.  Rogers',  and  go  to  Lady  Spencer.  Go  with 
Mr.  Rogers  to  dine  at  Highbury  with  his  brother  and  family.  Miss 
Rogers  the  same  at  Highbury  as  in  town.  *  *  Mr.  Rogers  says 
I  must  dine  with  him  to-morrow,  and  that  I  consented  when  I  was 
at  Sydenham  ;  and  now  certainly  they  expect  me  at  Hampgtcad, 
though  I  have  made  no  promise. 

"  7th.  —  Dinner  at  Mr.  Rogers',  with  Mr.  Moore  and  Mr.  Carnp- 
.bell,  Lord  Strangford  and  Mr.  Spencer. 

"  I4.th. —  Go  to  Mr.  Rogers',  and  take  a  farewell  visit  to  High 
bury.  Miss  Rogers.  Promise  to  go  when .  Return  early. 

Dine  there,  and  purpose  to  see  Mr.  Moore  and  Mr.  Rogers  in  the 
morning  when  they  set  out  for  Calais. 

"  15/7i.  —  Was  too  late  this  morning.  Messrs.  Rogers  and  Moore 
were  gone.  Go  to  church  at  St.  James'.  The  sermon  good  ;  but 
the  preacher  thought  proper  to  apologize  for  a  severity  which  he  had 
not  used.  Write  some  lines  in  the  solitude  of  Somerset  House,  not 
fifty  yards  from  the  Thames  on  one  side,  and  the  Strand  on  the  other ; 
but  as  quiet  as  the  sands  of  Arabia.  I  am  not  quite  in  good  humor 
with  this  day  ;  but,  happily,  I  cannot  say  why." 

The  dinner  at  Sydenham,  alluded  to  under  the]  date  of  July  2d, 
made  a  lasting  impression  on  more  than  one  of  the  party ;  and  Moore 
has  immortalized  it  in  one  of  his  most  graceful  and  exquisite  poems, 
the  Verses  to  the  Poet  Crabbe's  Inkstand.  We  transcribe  the  stan 
zas  in  which  the  poet  describes  the  subject  of  this  sketch  : 

"  How  freshly  doth  my  mind  recall, 

'Mong  the  few  days  I  've  known  with  thee, 
One  that  most  buoyantly  of  all 
Floats  in  the  wake  of  memory  ! 


MEMOIR    OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  37 

"  When  he,  the  poet,  doubly  graced 
In  life,  as  in  his  perfect  strain, 
With  that  pure,  mellowing  power  of  Taste, 
Without  which  Fancy  shines  in  vain  ; 

'*  Who  in  his  page  will  leave  behind, 

Pregnant  with  genius  though  it  be, 
But  half  the  treasures  of  a  mind, 
Where  Sense  o'er  all  holds  mastery  : 

**  Friend  of  long  years  !  of  friendship  tried 

Through  many  a  bright  and  dark  event  ; 
In  doubts,  my  judge  ;   in  taste,  my  guide  ; 
In  all,  my  stay  and  ornament ! 

"  He,  too,  was  of  our  feast  that  day, 

And  all  were  guests  of  one  whose  hand 
Hath  shed  a  new  and  deathless  ray 
Around  the  lyre  of  this  great  land  ; 

«*  In  whose  sea-odes  —  as  in  those  shells 

Where  Ocean's  voice  of  majesty 
Seems  still  to  sound  —  immortal  dwells 
Old  Albion's  Spirit  of  the  Sea." 

In  1819  Rogers  appeared  again  before  the  world  of  letters,  with 
the  poem  entitled  Human  Life,  which  found  a  friendly  critic  in  the 
accomplished  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Review.  From  his  beautiful 
article  we  copy  the  following  extracts  : 

"  These  are  very  sweet  verses.  They  do  not,  indeed,  stir  the  spirit 
like  the  strong  lines  of  Byron,  nor  make  our  hearts  dance  within  us, 
like  the  inspiring  strains  of  Scott ;  but  they  come  over  us  with  a 
bewitching  softness  that,  in  certain  moods,  is  still  more  delightful, 
and  soothe  the  troubled  spirits  with  a  refreshing  sense  of  truth, 
purity,  and  elegance.  They  are  pensive  rather  than  passionate  ; 
and  more  full  of  wisdom  and  tenderness  than  of  high  nights  of  fancy, 
or  overwhelming  bursts  of  emotion ;  while  they  are  moulded  into 
grace  at  least  as  much  by  the  effect  of  the  moral  beauties  they  dis 
close,  as  by  the  taste  and  judgment  with  which  they  are  constructed. 

"  The  theme  is  HUMAN  LIFE  !  — not  only  '  the  subject  of  all  verse,' 
but  the  great  centre  and  source  of  all  interest  in  the  works  of  human 
beings,  to  which  both  verse  and  prose  invariably  bring  us  back, 
4 


88  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

when  they  succeed  in  riveting  our  attention,  or  rousing  our  emo 
tions,  and  which  turns  everything  into  poetry  to  which  its  sensibili 
ties  can  be  ascribed,  or  by  which  its  vicissitudes  can  be  suggested  ! 
Yet  it  is  not  by  any  means  to  that  which,  in  ordinary  language,  is 
termed  the  poetry  or  the  romance  of  human  life,  that  the  present 
work  is  directed.  The  life  which  it  endeavors  to  set  before  us  is  not 
life  diversified  with  strange  adventures,  embodied  in  extraordinary 
characters,  or  agitated  with  turbulent  passions ;  not  the  life  of  war 
like  paladins,  or  desperate  lovers,  or  sublime  ruffians,  or  piping  shep 
herds,  or  sentimental  savages,  or  bloody  bigots,  or  preaching  ped- 
lers,  or  conquerors,  poets,  or  any  other  species  of  madmen  ;  but  the 
ordinary,  practical,  and  amiable  life  of  social,  intelligent  and  affec 
tionate  men  in  the  upper  ranks  of  society,  —  such,  in  short,  as  multi 
tudes  may  be  seen  living  every  day  in  this  country  ;  for  the  picture 
is  entirely  English,  and  though  not  perhaps  in  the  choice  of  every 
one,  yet  open  to  the  judgment,  and  familiar  to  the  sympathies,  of 
all.  It  contains,  of  course,  no  story,  and  no  individual  characters. 
It  is  properly  and  peculiarly  contemplative,  and  consists  in  a  series 
of  reflections  on  our  mysterious  nature  and  condition  upon  earth, 
and  on  the  marvellous  though  unnoticed  changes  which  the  ordi 
nary  course  of  our  existence  is  continually  bringing  about  in  our 
being.  Its  marking  peculiarity  in  this  respect  is,  that  it  is  free  from 
the  least  alloy  of  acrimony  or  harsh  judgment,  and  deals  not  at  all, 
indeed,  in  any  species  of  satirical  or  sarcastic  remark.  The  poet  looks 
here  on  man,  and  teaches  us  to  look  on  him,  not  merely  with  love, 
but  with  reverence  ;  and,  mingling  a  sort  of  considerate  pity  for  the 
shortness  of  his  busy  little  career,  and  the  disappointments  and  weak 
nesses  by  which  it  is  beset,  with  a  genuine  admiration  of  the  great 
capacities  he  unfolds,  and  the  high  destiny  to  which  he  seems  to  be 
reserved,  works  out  a  very  beautiful  and  engaging  picture,  both  of 
the  affections  by  which  life  is  endeared,  the  trials  to  which  it  is 
exposed,  and  the  pure  and  peaceful  enjoyments  with  which  it  may 
often  be  filled. 

"  This,  after  all,  we  believe,  is  the  tone  of  true  wisdom  and  true 
virtue  ;  and  that  to  which  all  good  natures  draw  nearer,  as  they 
approach  the  close  of  life,  and  come  to  act  less,  and  to  know  and  to 
meditate  more,  on  the  varying  and  crowded  scene  of  human  exist 
ence.  When  the  inordinate  hopes  of  early  youth,  which  provoke 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  39 

their  own  disappointment,  have  been  sobered  down  by  longer  experi 
ence  and  more  extended  views  ;  when  the  keen  contentions,  and  eager 
rivalries,  which  employed  our  riper  age,  have  expired  or  been  aban 
doned  ;  when  we  have  seen,  year  after  year,  the  objects  of  our  fiercest 
hostility,  and  of  our  fondest  affections,  lie  down  together  in  the  hal 
lowed  peace  of  the  grave  ;  when  ordinary  pleasures  and  amusements 
begin  to  be  insipid,  and  the  gay  derision  which  seasoned  them  to 
appear  flat  and  importunate  ;  when  we  reflect  how  often  we  have 
mourned  and  been  comforted  ;  what  opposite  opinions  we  have  suc 
cessively  maintained  and  abandoned  ;  to  what  inconsistent  habits  we 
have  gradually  been  formed,  and  how  frequently  the  objects  of  our 
pride  have  proved  the  sources  of  our  shame, —  we  are  naturally  led  to 
recur  to  the  careless  days  of  our  childhood,  and,  from  that  distant 
starting  place,  to  retrace  the  whole  of  our  career,  and  that  of  our 
contemporaries,  with  feelings  of  far  greater  humility  and  indulgence 
than  those  by  which  it  had  been  actually  accompanied  ;  —  to  think 
all  vain  but  affection  and  honor,  the  simplest  and  cheapest  pleasures 
the  truest  and  most  precious,  and  generosity  of  sentiment  the  only 
mental  superiority  which  ought  either  to  be  wished  for  or  admired. 

"  We  are  aware  that  we  have  said  '  something  too  much  of  this  ; ' 
and  that  our  readers  would  probably  have  been  more  edified,  as  well 
as  more  delighted,  by  Mr.  Rogers'  text,  than  with  our  preachment 
upon  it.  But  we  were  anxious  to  convey  to  them  our  sense  of  the 
spirit  in  which  this  poem  is  written  ;  —  and  conceive,  indeed,  that 
what  we  have  now  said  falls  more  strictly  within  the  line  of  our 
critical  duty  than  our  general  remarks  can  always  be  said  to  do  ; 
because  the  true  character  and  poetical  effect  of  the  work  seems,  in 
this  instance,  to  depend  much  more  on  its  moral  expression  than  on 
any  of  its  merely  literary  qualities. 

"  The  author,  perhaps,  may  not  think  it  any  compliment  to  be  thus 
told  that  his  verses  are  likely  to  be  greater  favorites  with  the  old 
than  with  the  young ;  — and  yet  it  is  no  small  compliment,  we  think, 
to  say  that  they  are  likely  to  be  more  favorites  with  his  readers  every 
year  they  live.  And  it  is,  at  all  events,  true,  whether  it  be  a  compli 
ment  or  not,  that  as  readers  of  all  ages,  if  they  are  any  way  worth 
pleasing,  have  little  glimpses  and  occasional  visitations  of  those 
truths  which  longer  experience  only  renders  more  familiar,  so  no 
works  ever  sink  so  deep  into  amiable  minds,  or  recur  so  often  to  their 


40  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

remembrance,  as  those  which  embody  simple,  and  solemn,  and  recon 
ciling  truths,  in  emphatic  and  elegant  language,  and  anticipate,  as 
it  were,  and  bring  out  with  effect,  those  salutary  lessons  which  it 
seems  to  be  the  great  end  of  our  life  to  inculcate.  The  pictures  of 
violent  passion  and  terrible  emotion,  the  breathing  characters,  the 
splendid  imagery  and  bewitching  fancy,  of  Shakspeare  himself,  are 
less  frequently  recalled,  than  those  great  moral  aphorisms  in  which 
he  has  so  often 

Told  us  the  fashion  of  our  own  estate, 
The  secrets  of  our  bosoms  ; 

and,  in  spite  of  all  that  may  be  said,  by  grave  persons,  of  the  frivo- 
lousness  of  poetry,  and  of  its  admirers,  we  are  persuaded  that  the 
most  memorable  and  the  most  generally  admired  of  all  its  produc 
tions  are  those  which  are  chiefly  recommended  by  their  deep  prac 
tised  wisdom,  and  their  coincidence  with  those  salutary  imitations 
with  which  nature  hersolf  seems  to  furnish  us  from  the  passing  scenes 
of  our  existence. 

"  The  literary  character  of  the  work  is  akin  to  its  moral  character ; 
and  the  diction  is  as  soft,  elegant  and  simple,  as  the  sentiments  are 
generous  and  true.  The  whole  piece,  indeed,  is  throughout  in  admir 
able  keeping  ;  and  its  beauties,  though  of  a  delicate,  rather  than  an 
obtrusive  character,  set  off  each  other,  to  an  attentive  observer,  by  the 
skill  with  which  they  are  harmonized,  and  the  sweetness  with  which 
they  slide  into  each  other.  The  outline,  perhaps,  is  often  rather 
timidly  drawn,  and  there  is  an  occasional  want  of  force  and  bril 
liancy  in  the  coloring  ;  which  we  are  rather  inclined  to  ascribe  to 
the  refined  and  somewhat  fastidious  taste  of  the  artist,  than  to  any 
defect  of  skill  or  of  power.  We  have  none  of  the  broad  and  blazing 
tints  of  Scott,  nor  the  startling  contrasts  of  Byron,  nor  the  anxious 
and  endlessly  repeated  touch  of  Southey,  but  something  which  comes 
much  nearer  to  the  soft  and  tender  manner  of  Campbell ;  with  still 
more  reserve  and  caution,  perhaps,  and  more  frequent  sacrifices  of 
strong  and  popular  effect  to  an  abhorrence  of  glaring  beauties,  and 
a  disdain  of  vulgar  resources." 

Soon  after  this  appearance  as  a  poet,  we  find  him  acting  in  a  char 
acter  which  he  seems  almost  as  much  to  have  affected,  —  that  of  a 
peace-maker.  Among  the  men  of  letters  whom  Dr.  Parr  visited  in 


MEMOIR    OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  41 

London,  we  are  told  by  one  of  his  biographers  that  he  "  always  men 
tioned  with  marked  distinction  Samuel  Rogers,  whom,  he  admired  as 
a  poet,  and  greatly  esteemed  as  a  friend."  A  clause  in  his  will  is 
in  the  following  words  :  "I  give  a  ring  in  token  of  high  regard  to 
Samuel  Rogers,  author  of  the  justly  celebrated  poem,  The  Pleasures 
of  Memory."  Rogers  had  been  the  medium  of  reconciling  the  doctor 
to  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  with  whom  he  had  differed,  aad  whom  he 
first  met,  after  a  long  coldness,  at  the  hospitable  board  of  the  poet. 
The  biographer  of  Mackintosh,  after  alluding  to  this  difference,  says, 
"  It  may  be  interesting  to  mention  that  the  occasion  on  which  the 
intimacy  was  renewed  was  offered  by  an  acceptance  of  the  following 
invitation  from  one  whose  '  Memory '  is  prodigal  in  such  '  Pleasures.' 

*  He  best  can  paint  them  who  can  feel  them  most.'  " 

"  DEAR  MACKINTOSH  :  Dr.  Parr  dines  with  me  on  Thursday,  the  3d  of 
August,  and  he  wishes  to  meet  some  of  his  old  friends  under  my  roof,  as  it 
may  be  for  the  last  time.  He  has  named  Wishaw,  and  Sharp,  and  Lord 
Holland  ;  and  he  says,  '  I  want  to  shake  hands  with  Jenimy  Mackintosh 
before  I  die.' 

"  May  I  ask  you  to  be  of  the  party  1  That  you  can  forgive,  I  know  full 
well.  That  you  will  forgive  in  this  instance  —  much  as  you  have  to  forgive 
—  I  hope  fervently. 

"  Some  of  the   pleasantest  moments  of  my  life   have  been  spent  in  the 
humble  office  I  am  now  venturing  to  take  upon  myself,  and  I  am  sure  you 
will  not  take  it  amiss,  if,  on  this  occasion,  I  wish  to  add  to  the  number. 
"Yours,  very  truly,  "SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

"July  23cZ,  1820." 

Moore  mentions  in  his  diary,  that  in  1824  he  passed  an  evening  in 
looking  over  Rogers'  Common  Place  Book  with  him,  where  he  found 
highly  curious  records  of  his  conversations  with  eminent  men,  par 
ticularly  Fox,  Grattan  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  A  diary  of 
Rogers,  with  his  opportunities,  and  his  admirable  faculty  of  com 
pression  in  his  prose  style,  could  hardly  fail  to  be  the  most  entertain 
ing  literary  history  that  ever  appeared.  He  has  been  more  familiar 
with  a  large  number  of  distinguished  persons,  for  a  longer  period,  than 
any  other  man  of  letters  whom  we  now  remember.  There  is  hardly 
a  person  distinguished  in  English  history  for  the  last  sixty  or  seventy 
years,  whose  name  is  not  in  some  way  connected  with  that  of  the 


42  MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

venerable  poet,  —  if  not  otherwise,  at  least  as  the  partaker  of  his 
liberal  and  elegant  hospitality.  His  social  sphere  has  always  been  a 
very  large  one.  It  included  whigs  and  tories,  wits  and  statesmen, 
poets  and  philanthropists  ;  not  only  the  habitues  of  society,  but 
men  who  were  but  seldom  seen  in  worldly  circles.  Sir  Samuel  Rom- 
illy  enters  in  his  diary,  a  few  months  before  his  lamented  death, — 
"To-day  I  dined  with  Rogers  (the  poet).  A  very  pleasant  dinner 
with  Crabbe  (whom  I  had  never  before  seen),  Frere  and  Jekyll." 
An  extract  from  the  diary  of  Wilberforce  shows  that  he  did  not  think 
so  well  of  this  dining  with  poets  : 

"  Feb.  19.  1814. —Dined  Duke  of  Gloucester's,  to  meet  Madame 
de  Stael,  at  her  desire.  Madame,  her  son  and  daughter,  duke,  two 
aides-de-camp,  Vansittart,  Lord  Erskine,  poet  Rogers,  and  others. 
Madame  de  Stael  quite  like  her  book,  though  less  hopeful.  Compli 
menting  me  highly  on  abolition,  and  all  Europe,  &c.  But  I  must 
not  spend  time  in  writing  this.  She  asked  me,  and  I  could  not  well 
refuse,  to  dine  with  her  on  Friday,  to  meet  Lord  Harrowby  and 
Mackintosh,  and  poet  Rogers  on  Tuesday  sennight. 

"  23d.  — Breakfast,  Mr.  Barnett  about  the  poor.  Letters.  Wrote 
to  Madame  de  Stael  and  poet  Rogers,  to  excuse  myself  from  dining 
with  them.  It  does  not  seem  the  line  in  which  I  can  now  glorify 
God.  Dinner  quiet,  and  letters  afterwards." 

In  his  diary,  under  date  of  the  5th  November,  1821,  Moore  makes 
thti  following  entry  :  "  By  the  by,  I  received  the  other  day  a  manu 
script  from  the  Longmans^  requesting  me  (as  they  often  do)  to  look 
over  it,  and  give  my  opinion  whether  it  would  be  worth  publishing 
anonymously.  Upon  opening  it,  found,  to  my  surprise,  that  it  was 
'  Rogers'  Italy,'  which  he  has  sent  home  thus  privately  to  be  pub 
lished."  This  work  was  published  in  the  following  year,  and  is  the 
last  and  best  of  its  author's  productions.  Its  merits  have  been  set 
forth  with  exquisite  taste  and  skill,  by  a  writer  in  the  New  Monthly 
Magazine  : 

"  Turn  we  to  the  last  and  greatest  of  our  author's  poems,  '  Italy.' 

"  The  great  character  of  this  poem  (Italy)  as  it  is  in  The  Pleasures 
of  Memory,  is  simplicity  ;  but  here  simplicity  assumes  a  nobler  shape. 
Although  to  a  certain  degree  there  is  an  alteration  in  the  tone  of 
the  last  from  that  of  the  first  published  poem,  an  alteration  seem 
ingly  more  marked  from  the  difference  between  blank  verse  and 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  43 

rhyme  ;  and  although  there  is  something  of  the  new  Persian  odors, 
breathing  from  the  myrtle  wreaths  of  a  muse,  whom  '  displicant  nexae 
philyra  coronas,'  yet,  unlike  what  we  felt  inclined  to  blame  in  '  Jac 
queline  '  and  the  '  Human  Life,'  we  see  nothing  that  reminds  us  of 
individual  traits  in  another  ;  nothing  that  reminds  us  of  Byron, 
though  he  strung  his  harp  to  the  same  theme  ;  nothing  that  recalls 
any  contemporaneous  writer,  unless  it  be  occasionally  Wordsworth, 
in  Wordsworth's  purer,  if  not  loftier  vein  :  we  see  no  harsh,  con 
strained  abruptness,  emulating  vigor  ;  no  childish  mirauderies,  that 
would  gladly  pass  themselves  off  for  simplicity.  Along  the  shores 
and  palaces  of  old  glides  one  calm  and  serene  tide  of  verse,  wooing 
to  its  waters  every  legend  and  every  stream  that  can  hallow  and 
immortalize. 

"  This  poem  differs  widely  from  the  poems  of  the  day,  in  that  it  is 
wholly  void  of  all  that  is  meretricious.  Though  nature  itself  could 
not  be  less  naked  of  ornament,  yet  nature  itself  could  not  be  more 
free  from  all  ornament  that  is  tinsel  or  inappropriate.  A  contem 
plative  and  wise  man,  skilled  in  all  the  arts,  and  nursing  all  the 
beautiful  traditions  of  the  past,  having  seen  enough  of  the  world  to 
moralize  justly,  having  so  far  advanced  in  the  circle  of  life  as  to 
have  supplied  emotion  with  meditation,  telling  you,  in  sweet  and 
serene  strains,  all  that  he  sees,  hears  and  feels,  in  journeying  through 
a  country  which  nature  and  history  combine  to  consecrate,  —  this  is 
the  character  of  Rogers'  Italy  ;  and  the  reader  will  see  at  once  how 
wholly  it  differs  in  complexion  from  the  solemn  Harold,  or  the  im 
passioned  Corinne.  This  poem  is  perfect  as  a  whole  ;  it  is  as  a  whole 
that  it  must  be  judged  ;  its  tone,  its  depth,  its  hoard  of  thought  and 
description,  make  its  main  excellence,  and  these  are  the  merits  that 
no  short  extracts  can  adequately  convey. 

"  Of  all  things,  perhaps  the  hardest  in  the  world  for  a  poet  to 
effect  is  to  gossip  poetically.  We  are  those  who  think  it  is  in  this 
that  Wordsworth  rarely  succeeds,  and  Cowper  as  rarely  fails.  This 
graceful  and  difficult  art  Rogers  has  made  his  own  to  a  degree  almost 
unequalled  in  the  language. 

#  *  *  #  #  #  # 

"  With  the  author  of  The  Pleasures  of  Memory  —  a  banker,  a  wit, 
a  man  of  high  social  reputation  —  we  find  it  is  from  the  stony  heart 
of  the  great  world  that  the  living  waters  of  a  pure  and  transparent 


44  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

poetry  have  been  stricken.  Few  men  of  letters  have  been  more  per 
sonally  known  in  their  day,  or  more  generally  courted.  A  vein  of 
agreeable  conversation,  sometimes  amene,  and  more  often  caustic  ;  a 
polished  manner,  a  sense  quickly  alive  to  all  that  passes  around  ; 
and,  above  all,  perhaps,  a  taste  in  the  arts,  a  knowledge  of  painting 
and  of  sculpture,  —  very  rare  in  this  country,  —  have  contributed  to 
make  the  author  of  Italy  scarce  less  distinguished  in  society  than  in 
letters." 

Moore's  diary  is  full  of  allusions  to  his  social  intercourse  with 
Rogers  and  his  friends.  One  day  the  fashionable  poet  was  invited  to 
dine  in  St.  James'  Place,  to  meet  Barnes,  the  editor  of  the  Times,  in 
company  with  Lords  Landsdowne  and  Holland,  Luttrell  and  Tierney  ; 
and  Moore,  on  Rogers'  advising  that  he  was  well  worth  cultivating, 
broke  off  an  engagement  for  the  next  Sunday  with  Miss  White,  and 
refused  Lord  Landsdowne,  to  accept  an  invitation  from  Barnes. 
Another  day  he  would  breakfast  at  Rogers'  with  Sydney  Smith, 
Sharpe,  Luttrell  and  Lord  John  ;  or  amuse  himself  with  reading  the 
notes  from  Sheridan,  or  passages  from  the  unpublished  works  of  his 
friend. 

On  10th  April,  1823,  he  writes,  "  Dined  at  Rogers'.  A  distin 
guished  party  :  S.  Smith,  Ward,  Luttrell,  Payne  Knight,  Lord 
Aberdeen,  Abercrombie,  Lord  Clifden,  &c.  Smith  particularly 
amusing.  Have  rather  held  out  against  him  hitherto  ;  but  this  day 
he  conquered  me  ;  and  I  am  now  his  victim,  in  the  laughing  way, 
for  life.  *  *  What  Rogers  says  of  Smith,  very  true,  that  when 
ever  the  conversation  is  getting  dull  he  throws  in  some  touch  which 
makes  it  rebound,  and  rise  again  as  light  as  ever.  Ward's  artificial 
efforts,  which  to  me  are  always  painful,  made  still  more  so  by  their 
contrast  to  Smith's  natural  and  overflowing  exuberance.  Luttrell, 
too,  considerably  extinguished  to-day  ;  but  there  is  this  difference 
between  Luttrell  and  Smith,  —  that  after  the  former  you  remember 
what  good  things  he  said,  and  after  the  latter  you  merely  remember 
how  much  you  laughed.  Juno  10th.  —  Breakfasted  at  Rogers',  to  meet 
Luttrell,  Lady  Davy,  Miss  Rogers  and  William  Bankes.  *  *  Rogers 
showed  us  '  Gray's  Poems  '  in  his  original  hand- writing,  with  a  letter 
to  the  printer  ;  also  the  original  MS.  of  one  of  Sterne's  sermons." 
Again,  he  dined  with  Rogers  at  the  Athenaeum,  the  first  time  tho 
latter  ever  dined  at  a  club.  lie  dined  with  him  at  Roberts',  in  Paris, 


MEMOIR   OP   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  45 

tete-a-tete,  at  a  splendid  dinner  "  at  fifteen  francs  a  head,  exclusive 
of  wine.  Poets  did  not  feed  so  in  the  olden  time."  But  the  dinners 
in  the  poet's  own  modest  but  elegant  mansion  will  be  remembered  as 
models  of  refined  and  intellectual  hospitality,  as  long  as  the  names 
live  of  the  great  men  who  have  delighted  to  gather  round  his  table. 

"We  have  alluded  to  Rogers'  talent  for  epigram  ;  a  talent  which  he 
has  very  discreetly  employed.  His  conversation  seems  to  have  been 
dry  and  sarcastic,  though  he  is  not  to  be  held  responsible  for  most 
of  the  bon-mots  and  repartees  that  have  been  attributed  to  him.  It 
was  at  one  time  the  habit  of  some  of  the  London  newspapers  to  man 
ufacture  these  things,  and  ascribe  them  to  Rogers.  Of  this  manu 
facture,  no  doubt,  is  a  mot  that  has  found  its  way  into  a  book  so 
respectable  as  Mr.  E.  H.  Barker's  Literary  Anecdotes.  "  Rogers, 
speaking  to  Wilberforce  of  the  naked  Achilles  in  the  park,  said  it 
was  strange  that  one  who  had  made  so  many  breaches  in  Troy  should 
not  have  a  single  pair  for  himself."  Moore  records  some  of  his  obser 
vation,  which  are  pithy  and  pertinent.  On  one  occasion,  speaking 
of  the  sort  of  conscription  of  persons  of  all  kinds  that  was  put  in 
force  for  the  dinner  of  the  Hollands,  Rogers  said,  "  There  are  two 
parties  before  whom  everybody  must  appear — them  and  the  police." 
Again,  speaking  of  their  friend  Miss  White,  Rogers  said,  "  How 
wonderfully  she  does  hold  out !  They  may  say  what  they  will,  but 
Miss  White  and  Mss-olonghi  are  the  most  remarkable  things  going." 
In  talking  of  the  game-laws  at  a  party  at  Holland  House,  Rogers 
said,  "  If  a  partridge,  on  arriving  in  this  country,  were  to  ask  what 
are  the  game-laws,  and  somebody  would  tell  him  they  are  laws  for 
the  protection  of  game,  '  What  an  excellent  country  to  live  in,'  the 
partridge  would  say,  '  where  there  are  so  many  laws  for  our  pro 
tection  ! '  "  On  somebody  remarking  that  Payne  Knight  had  got  very 
deaf — "  'T  is  from  want  of  practice,"  said  Rogers  ;  Knight  being  a 
notoriously  bad  listener  Rogers  thus  described  Lord  Holland's  feel 
ing  for  the  arts  :  "  Painting  gives  him  no  pleasure,  and  music  abso 
lute  pain." 

From  the  reports  of  his  conversation,  we  are  inclined  to  believe  that 
it  is  entitled  to  a  good  deal  of  the  praise  which  the  Quarterly  Review 
bestows  upon  the  Notes  to  his  poems.  In  referring  to  the  venerable 
poet,  the  reviewer  says,  "  This  most  elegant  and  correct  of  writers, 
with  a  taste  matured  bj  the  constant  study  of  the  classics  of  our 


46  MEMOIR  OF   SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

tongue,  has  amused  his  leisure  hours  by  trying  into  how  small  a 
compass  wit,  wisdom  and  elegance,  may  be  packed.  The  notes  to  the 
last  edition  of  his  poems  are  not  merely  treasure-houses  of  anecdote 
and  illustration,  but  admirable  studies  in  composition  for  those  who 
will  be  at  the  pains  of  ascertaining  the  precise  language  in  which  the 
same  thoughts  or  incidents  have  been  expressed  in  verse  or  related  by 
others."  Of  an  essay  on  assassination,  written  for  insertion  among  the 
pooms  on  Italy,  Mackintosh  wrote  him  that  "  Hume  could  not  im 
prove  the  thoughts,  nor  Addison  the  language."  And  Moore  says, 
in  his  diary,  that  he  feels  it  would  do  one  good  to  study  such  writ 
ing,  if  not  as  a  model,  yet  as  a  chasten er  and  simplifier  of  style,  it 
being  the  very  reverse  of  ambition  or  ornament. 

It  is  well  said,  by  a  writer  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  that  there  are 
few  precepts  of  taste  which  are  not  practised  in  Mr.  Rogers'  estab 
lishment,  as  well  as  recommended  in  his  works.  In  illustration  of 
the  remark,  he  alludes  to  a  novel  and  ingenious  mode  of  lighting  a 
dining-room,  which  might  be  well  imitated  wherever  there  are  fine 
pictures.  Lamps  above  or  candles  on  the  table  there  are  none,  but 
all  the  light  is  reflected  by  Titians,  Reynolds',  &c.,  from  lamps  pro 
jecting  out  of  the  frame  of  the  pictures,  and  screened  from  the  com 
pany.  His  house  in  St.  James'  Place  is  small,  but  overflowing  with 
the  choicest  specimens  of  the  fine  arts,  pictures,  antique  bronzes, 
sculptures  and  literary  curiosities  of  uncounted  value.  The  following 
detailed  description  of  the  works  of  art  which  adorn  this  hospitable 
mansion  is  from  the  pen  of  Professor  Waagen,  of  Berlin  : 

"  By  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Solly,  who  continues  to  embrace  every 
opportunity  of  doing  me  service,  I  have  been  introduced  to  Mr.  Rogers 
the  poet,  a  very  distinguished  and  amiable  man.  He  is  one  of  the 
few  happy  mortals  to  whom  it  has  been  granted  to  be  able  to  gratify, 
in  a  worthy  manner,  the  most  lively  sensibility  to  everything  noble 
and  beautiful.  He  has  accordingly  found  means,  in  the  course  of  his 
long  life,  to  impress  this  sentiment  on  everything  about  him.  In  his 
house  you  are  everywhere  surrounded  and  excited  with  the  higher 
productions  of  art.  In  truth,  one  knows  not  whether  more  to  admii'e 
the  diversity  or  the  purity  of  his  taste.  Pictures  of  the  most  differ 
ent  schools,  ancient  and  modern  sculptures,  Greek  vases,  alternately 
attract  the  eye  ;  and  are  so  arranged,  with  a  judicious  regard  to  their 
size,  in  proportion  to  the  place  assigned  them,  that  every  room  is 


MEMOIR   OF- SAMUEL   ROGERS.  47 

richly  and  picturesquely  ornamented,  without  having  the  appearance 
of  a  magazine  from  being  overfilled,  as  we  frequently  find.  Among 
all  these  objects,  none  is  insignificant ;  several  cabinets  and  portfolios 
contain,  beside  the  choicest  collections  of  antique  ornaments  in  gold 
that  I  have  hitherto  seen,  valuable  miniatures  of  the  middle  ages,  fine 
drawings  by  the  old  masters,  and  the  most  agreeable  prints  of  the 
greatest  of  the  old  engravers,  Marcantonio,  Durer,  etc.,  in  the  finest 
impressions.  The  enjoyment  of  all  these  treasures  was  heightened  to 
the  owner  by  the  confidential  intercourse  with  the  most  eminent,  now 
deceased,  English  artists,  Flaxman  and  Stothard  ;  both  have  left  him 
a  memorial  of  their  friendship.  In  two  little  marble  statues  of  Cupid 
and  Psyche,  and  a  mantel-piece,  with  a  bas-relief  representing  a  muse 
with  a  lyre  and  Mnemosyne  by  Flaxman,  there  is  the  same  noble  and 
graceful  feeling  which  has  so  greatly  attracted  me,  from  my  child 
hood,  in  his  celebrated  compositions  after  Homer  and  JEschylus. 
The  hair  and  draperies  are  treated  with  great,  almost  too  picturesque 
softness.  Among  all  the  English  painters,  none,  perhaps,  has  so 
much  power  of  invention  as  Stothard.  His  versatile  talent  has  suc 
cessfully  made  essays  in  the  domains  of  history,  or  fancy  and  poetry, 
of  humor,  and,  lastly,  even  in  domestic  scenes,  in  the  style  of  Wat- 
teau.  To  this  may  be  added  much  feeling  for  graceful  movements, 
and  cheerful,  bright  coloring.  In  his  pictures,  which  adorn  a  chim 
ney-piece,  principal  characters  from  Shakspeare's  plays  are  repre 
sented  with  great  spirit  and  humor  ;  among  them,  Falstaff  makes  a 
very  distinguished  and  comical  figure.  There  is  also  a  merry  com 
pany,  in  the  style  of  AVatteau  ;  the  least  attractive  is  an  allegorical 
representation  of  Peace  returning  to  the  earth,  for  the  brilliant  color 
ing,  approaching  to  Rubens,  cannot  make  up  for  the  poorness  of  the 
heads  and  the  weakness  of  the  drawing. 

"  As  there  are  among  the  pictures  some  of  the  best  works  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  fine  specimens  of  the  works  of  three  of  the  most 
eminent  British  artists  of  an  earlier  date  are  here  united. 

"  Beside  portraits,  properly  so  called,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was 
the  happiest  in  the  representation  of  children,  where  he  was  able,  in 
the  main,  to  remain  faithful  to  nature,  and  in  general  an  indifferent 
but  naive  action  or  occupation  alone  was  necessary.  In  such  pic 
tures,  he  admirably  succeeded  in  representing  the  youthful  bloom 
and  artless  manners  of  the  fine  English  children.  This  it  is  which 


48  MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

makes  his  celebrated  strawberry-girl,  which  is  in  this  collection,  so 
attractive.  With  her  hands  simply  folded,  a  basket  under  her  arm, 
she  stands  in  a  white  frock,  and  looks  full  at  the  spectator,  with  her 
fine,  large  eyes.  The  admirable  impasto,  the  bright,  golden  tone, 
clear  as  Kembrandt,  and  the  dark  landscape  back-ground,  have  a 
striking  effect.  Sir  Joshua  himself  looked  upon  this  as  one  of  his  best 
pictures.  A  sleeping  girl  is  also  uncommonly  charming,  the  color 
ing  very  glowing  ;  many  cracks  in  the  painting,  both  in  the  back 
ground  and  the  drapery,  show  the  uncertainty  of  the  artist  in  the 
mechanical  processes  of  the  art.  Another  girl  with  a  bird  does  not 
give  me  so  much  pleasure.  The  rather  affected  laugh  is,  in  this  in 
stance,  not  stolen  from  nature,  but  from  the  not  happy  invention  of 
the  painter ;  in  the  glowing  color  there  is  something  specky  and 
false.  Puck,  the  merry  elf  in  Shakspeare's  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  called  by  the  English  Robin  Goodfellow,  represented  as  a 
child,  with  an  arch  look,  sitting  on  a  mushroom,  and  full  of  wanton 
ness,  stretching  out  arms  and  legs,  is  another  much  admired  work  of 
Sir  Joshua.  But,  though  this  picture  is  painted  with  much  warmth 
and  clearness,  the  conception  does  not  at  all  please  me.  I  find  it  too 
childish,  and  not  fantastic  enough.  In  the  back-ground.  Titania  is 
seen  with  the  ass-headed  Avcaver.  Psyche  with  the  lamp,  looking  at 
Cupid,  figures  as  large  as  life,  is  of  the  most  brilliant  effect,  and,  in 
the  tender,  greenish  half-tints,  also  of  great  delicacy.  In  the  regard 
for  beautiful  leading  lines,  there  is  an  affinity  to  the  rather  exagger 
ated  grace  of  Parmeggiano.  In  such  pictures  by  Sir  Joshua,  the 
incorrect  drawing  always  injures  the  effect.  I  was  much  interested 
at  meeting  with  a  landscape  by  this  master.  It  is  in  the  style  of 
Rembrandt,  and  of  very  strong  effect. 

"  Of  older  English  painters,  there  are  here  two  pretty  pictures  by 
Gainsborough,  one  by  Wilson  ;  of  the  more  recent,  I  found  only  one 
by  the  rare  and  spirited  Bonington,  of  a  Turk  fallen  asleep  over  his 
pipe,  admirably  executed  in  a  deep,  harmonious  chiaro-oscuro.  Mr. 
Rogers'  taste  and  knowledge  of  the  art  are  too  general  for  him  not  to 
feel  the  profound  intellectual  value  of  works  of  art  in  which  the  man 
agement  of  the  materials  was  in  some  degree  restricted.  He  has, 
therefore,  not  disdained  to  place  in  his  collection  the  half-figures  of 
St.  Paul  and  St.  John,  and  fragments  of  a  fresco  painting  from  the 
Carmelite  Church  at  Florence,  by  Giotto  ;  Salome  dancing  before 


MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL   ROGERS.  49 

Herod,  and  the  beheading  of  St.  John,  by  Fiesole  ;  a  coronation  of 
the  Virgin,  by  Lorenzo  de  Condi,  the  fellow-scholar  and  friend  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  whose  productions  and  personal  character  were 
so  estimable.  Next  to  these  pictures  is  a  Christ  on  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  by  Raphael,  at  the  time  when  he  had  not  abandoned  the 
manner  of  Perugio.  This  little  picture  was  once  a  part  of  the  pre- 
della  to  the  altar-piece  which  Raphael  painted  in  the  year  1505,  for 
the  nuns  of  St.  Anthony,  at  Perugio.  It  came  with  the  Orleans 
gallery  to  England,  and  was  last  in  the  possession  of  Lord  Eldin,  in 
Edinburgh.  Unhappily  it  has  been  much  injured  by  cleaning  and 
repairing,  but  in  many  parts,  particularly  in  the  arms  of  the  angel, 
there  are  defects  in  the  drawing,  such  as  we  do  not  find  in  Raphael 
even  at  this  period.  So  that,  most  probably,  the  composition  alone 
should  be  ascribed  to  him,  and  the  execution  to  one  of  the  assistants, 
who  painted  the  two  saints  belonging  to  the  same  predella  now  in 
Dulwich  College. 

"  From  the  Orleans  gallery,  Mr.  Rogers  has  Raphael's  Madonna, 
well  known  by  Flipart's  engraving,  with  the  eyes  rather  cast  down, 
on  Avhom  the  child  standing  by  her  fondly  leans.  The  expression  of 
joyousness  in  the  child  is  very  pleasing.  The  gray  color  of  the  under- 
dress  of  the  Virgin,  with  red  sleeves,  forms  an  agreeable  harmony 
with  the  blue  mantle.  To  judge  by  the  character  and  drawing,  the 
composition  may  be  of  the  early  period  of  Raphael's  residence  at 
Rome.  In  other  respects,  this  picture  admits  of  no  judgment,  be 
cause  many  parts  have  become  quite  flat  by  cleaning,  and  others  are 
painted  over.  The  landscape  is  in  a  blue-greenish  tone,  differing 
from  Raphael's  manner. 

"  Of  the  Roman  school  I  will  mention  only  one  more.  Christ 
bearing  his  cross,  by  Andrea  Sacchi,  a  moderate-sized  picture  from 
the  Orleans  gallery,  is  one  of  the  capital  pictures  of  this  master,  in 
composition,  depth  of  coloring,  and  harmony. 

"  The  crown,  however,  of  the  whole  collection,  is  Christ  appearing 
to  Mary  Magdalene,  by  Titian.  It  was  formerly  in  the  possession  of 
the  family  of  Musclli  at  Verona,  and  afterward  adorned  the  Orleans 
gallery.  In  the  clear,  bright,  golden  tone  of  the  flesh,  the  careful 
execution,  the  refined  feeling,  in  the  impassioned  desire  of  the  kneel 
ing  Magdalene  to  touch  the  Lord,  and  the  calm,  dignified  refusal  of 
the  Saviour,  we  recognize  the  earlier  time  of  this  master.  The  beau- 
5 


50  MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL  EOGERS. 

tiful  landscape,  with  the  reflection  of  the  glowing  horizon  upon  the 
blue  sea,  which  is  of  great  importance  here,  in  proportion  to  the 
figures,  proves  how  early  Titian  obtained  extraordinary  mastery  in 
this  point,  and  confirms  that  he  was  the  first  who  carried  this  branch 
to  a  higher  degree  of  perfection.  This  poetic  picture  is,  on  the  whole, 
in  very  good  preservation  ;  the  crimson  drapery  of  the  Magdalene  is 
of  unusual  depth  and  fulness.  The  lower  part  of  the  legs  of  Christ 
have,  however,  suffered  a  little.  The  figures  are  about  a  third  the 
size  of  life. 

"  The  finished  sketch  for  the  celebrated  picture,  known  by  the 
name  of  La  Gloria  di  Tiziano,  which  he  afterward,  by  the  command 
of  Philip  II.,  King  of  Spain,  painted  for  the  church  of  the  convent 
where  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  died,  is  also  very  remarkable.  It  is 
a  rich,  but  not  very  pleasing  composition.  The  idea  of  having  the 
coffin  of  the  emperor  carried  up  to  heaven,  where  God  the  Father 
and  Son  are  enthroned,  is  certainly  not  a  happy  one.  The  painting 
is  throughout  excellent,  and  of  a  rich,  deep  tone  in  the  flesh.  Unfor 
tunately,  it  is  not  wanting  in  re-touches.  The  large  picture  is  now 
in  the  Escurial. 

"  As  the  genuine  pictures  of  Giorgione  are  so  very  rare,  I  will 
briefly  mention  a  young  knight,  —  small,  full-length,  noble  and 
powerful  in  face  and  figure  ;  the  head  is  masterly,  treated  in  his 
glowing  tone  ;  the  armor  with  great  force  and  clearness  in  the 
chiaro-oscuro. 

"  The  original  sketch  of  Tintoretto,  for  his  celebrated  picture  of  St. 
Mark  coming  to  the  assistance  of  a  martyr,  is  as  spirited  as  it  is  full 
and  deep  in  the  tone. 

"  The  rich  man  and  Lazarus,  by  Giacomo  Bassano,  is,  in  execution 
and  glow  of  coloring,  approaching  to  Rembrandt,  one  of  the  best 
pictures  of  the  master. 

"  There  are  some  fine  cabinet  pictures  of  the  school  of  Carracci : 
a  Virgin  and  Child,  worshipped  by  six  saints,  by  Lodovico  Carracci, 
is  one  of  his  most  pleasing  pictures  in  imitation  of  Corregio.  Among 
four  pictures  by  Domenichino,  two  landscapes,  with  the  punishment 
of  Marsyas,  and  Tobit  with  the  fish,  are  very  attractive,  from  the 
poetry  of  the  composition  and  the  delicacy  of  the  finish.  Another 
likewise  very  fine  one  of  Bird-catching,  from  the  Borghese  Palace, 


MEMOIR    OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  51 

has  unfortunately  turned  quite  dark.  A  Christ,  by  Guido,  is  broadly 
and  spiritedly  touched  in  his  finest  silver  tone. 

"  There  is  an  exquisite  little  gem  by  Claude  Lorraine.  In  a  soft 
evening  light,  a  lonely  shepherd,  with  his  peaceful  flocks,  is  playing 
the  pipe.  Of  the  master's  earlier  time  ,  admirable  in  the  impasto, 
careful  and  delicate,  decided  and  soft,  all  in  a  warm,  golden  tone. 
In  the  Liber  Veritatis,  marked  No.  11.  Few  pictures  inspire  .like 
this  a  feeling  for  the  delicious  stillness  of  a  summer's  evening. 

"  A  landscape  by  Nicolas  Poussin,  rather  large,  of  a  very  poetic 
composition  and  "careful  execution,  inspires,  on  the  other  hand,  in 
the  brownish  silver  tone,  the  sensation  of  the  freshness  of  morning. 
There  is  quite  a  reviving  coolness  in  the  dark  water  and  under  the 
trees  of  the  fore-ground. 

<;  Two  smaller  historical  pictures  by  Poussin,  of  his  earlier  time, 
class  among  his  careful  and  good  works. 

"  Of  the  Flemish  school  there  are  a  few,  but  very  good,  speci 
mens. 

"  There  is  a  highly  interesting  picture  by  Rubens.  During  his 
residence  in  Mantua,  he  was  so  pleased  with  the  triumph  of  Julius 
Caesar,  by  Mantegna,  that  he  made  a  fine  copy  of  one  of  the  nine 
pictures.  His  love  for  the  fantastic  and  pompous  led  him  to  choose 
that  with  the  elephants  carrying  the  candelabra  ;  but  his  ardent 
imagination,  ever  directed  to  the  dramatic,  could  not  be  content  with 
this.  Instead  of  a  harmless  sheep,  which  in  Mantegna  is  walking  by 
the  side  of  the  foremost  elephant,  Rubens  made  a  lion  and  a  lioness, 
which  growl  angrily  at  the  elephant.  The  latter,  on  his  part,  is  not 
idle,  but,  looking  furiously  round,  is  on  the  point  of  striking  the  lion 
a  blow  with  his  trunk.  The  severe  pattern  which  he  had  before  him 
in  Mantegna  has  moderated  Rubens  in  his  usually  very  full  forms,  so 
that  they  are  more  noble  and  slender  than  they  generally  are.  The 
coloring,  as  in  all  his  earlier  pictures,  is  more  subdued  than  in  the 
later,  and  yet  powerful.  Rubens  himself  seems  to  have  set  much 
value  on  this  study  ;  for  it  was  among  the  effects  at  his  death. 
During  the  revolution,  Mr.  Champernowne  brought  it  from  the 
Balbi  Palace,  at  Genoa.  It  is  three  feet  high,  and  five  feet  five 
inches  wide. 

"  The  study  for  the  celebrated  picture,  the  Terrors  of  War,  in  the 
Pitti  Palace,  at  Florence,  and  respecting  which  we  have  a  letter  in 


52  MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

Rubens'  own  hand,  is  likewise  well  worth  notice.  Rubens  painted 
this  picture  for  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany.  Venus  endeavors,  in 
vain,  to  keep  Mars,  the  insatiable  warrior,  as  Homer  calls  him,  from 
war  ;  he  hurries  away  to  prepare  indescribable  destruction.  This 
picture,  one  foot  eight  inches  high,  and  two  feet  six  and  a  half  inches 
wide,  which  I  have  seen  in  the  exhibition  of  the  British  Institution, 
is,  by  the  warmth  and  power  of  the  coloring,  and  the  spirited  and 
careful  execution,  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  Rubens'  small  pictures 
of  this  period. 

"  Lastly,  there  is  a  Moonlight  by  him.  The  clear  reflection  of  the 
moon  in  the  water,  its  effect  in  the  low  distance,  the  contrast  of  the 
dark  mass  of  trees  in  the  fore-ground,  are  a  proof  of  the  deep  feeling 
for  striking  incidents  in  nature  which  was  peculiar  to  Rubens.  As 
in  another  picture  the  flakes  of  snow  were  represented,  he  has  here 
marked  the  stars. 

"  I  have  now  become  acquainted  with  Rembrandt  in  a  new  depart 
ment  ;  he  has  painted  in  brown  and  white  a  rather  obscure  allegory 
on  the  deliverance  of  the  United  Provinces  from  the  union  of  such 
great  powers  as  Spain  and  Austria.  It  is  a  rich  composition,  with 
many  horsemen.  One  of  the  most  prominent  figures  is  a  lion 
chained  at  the  foot  of  a  rock,  on  which  the  the  tree  of  liberty  is 
growing.  Over  the  rock  are  the  words,  '  Solo  Deo  gloria.''  The 
whole  is  executed  with  consummate  skill,  and  the  principal  effect 
striking. 

"  His  own  portrait,  at  an  advanced  age,  with  very  dark  ground 
and  shadows,  and,  for  him,  a  cool  tone  of  the  lights,  is  to  be  classed, 
among  the  great  number  of  them,  with  that  in  the  Bridgewater  Gal 
lery  ;  only  it  is  treated  in  his  broadest  manner,  which  borders  on 
looseness. 

"  A  landscape,  with  a  few  trees  upon  a  hill,  in  the  fore-ground, 
with  a  horseman  and  a  pedestrian  in  the  back-ground,  a  plain  with 
a  bright  horizon,  is  clearer  in  the  shadows  than  other  landscapes  by 
Rembrandt,  and,  therefore,  with  the  most  powerful  effect,  the  more 
harmonious. 

"  Among  the  drawings,  I  must  at  least  mention  some  of  the  finest. 

"  RAPHAEL. —  The  celebrated  Entombment,  drawn  with  the  utmost 
spirit  with  the  pen.  From  the  Crozat  collection.  Mr.  Rogers  gave 
one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  for  it. 


MEMOIR    OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  53 

"ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. — Some  studies  in  black  chalks,  for  his  fresco 
paintings  in  the  Chapel  del  Scalzo.  That  for  the  young  man  who 
carries  the  baggage  in  the  visitation  of  the  Virgin  is  remarkably 
animated. 

"  LUCAS  VAN  LEYDEN. — A  pen  drawing,  executed  in  the  most  per 
fect  and  masterly  manner,  for  his  celebrated  and  excessively  rare 
engraving  of  the  portrait  of  the  Emperor  Maximilian  I.  This 
wonderful  drawing  has  hitherto  been  erroneously  ascribed  to  Albert 
Durer. 

"  ALBERT  DURER. — A  child  weeping.  In  chalk,  on  colored  paper, 
brightened  with  white  ;  almost  unpleasantly  true  to  reality. 

"  Among  the  admirable  engravings,  I  mention  only  a  single  female 
figure,  very  delicately  treated,  which  is  so  entirely  pervaded  with  the 
spirit  of  Francisco  Francia,  that  I  do  not  hesitate  to  ascribe  it  to  him. 
Francia,  originally  a  goldsmith,  is  wrell  known  to  have  been  pecu 
liarly  skilled  in  executing  larger  compositions  in  niello.  How  easily, 
therefore,  might  it  have  occurred  to  him,  instead  of  working  as  hith 
erto  in  silver,  to  work  with  his  graver  in  copper,  especially  as  in  his 
time  the  engraving  on  copper  had  been  brought  into  more  general 
use  in  Italy,  by  A.  Mantegna  and  others  ;  and  Francia  had  such 
energy  and  diversity  of  talents  that,  in  his  mature  age,  he  success 
fully  made  himself  master  of  the  art  of  painting,  which  was  so  much 
more  remote  from  his  own  original  profession.  Beside  this,  the  fine 
delicate  lines  in  which  the  engraving  is  executed  indicate  an  artist 
who  had  been  previously  accustomed  to  work  for  niello-plates,  in 
which  this  manner  is  usually  practised.  The  circumstance,  too,  that 
Marcantonio  was  educated  in  the  workshop  of  Francia,  is  favorable  to 
the  presumption  that  he  himself  had  practised  engraving. 

"  Among  the  old  miniatures,  that  which  is  framed  and  glazed  and 
hung  up,  representing,  in  a  landscape,  a  knight  in  golden  armor, 
kneeling  down,  to  whom  God  the  Father,  surrounded  by  cherubim 
and  ssraphim,  appears  in  the  air,  while  the  damned  are  tormented 
by  devils  in  the  abyss,  is  by  far  the  most  important.  As  has  been 
already  observed  by  Passavant,  it  belongs  to  a  series  of  forty  minia 
tures,  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  George  Brentano,  at  Frankfort-on- 
Maine,  which  were  executed  for  Maitre  Etienne  Chevalier,  treasurer 
of  France  under  King  Charles  VII.,  and  may  probably  have  adorned 
his  prayer-book.  They  are  by  the  greatest  French  miniature-painter 


54  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

of  the  fifteenth  century,  Johan  Fouquet  de  Tours,  painter  to  King 
Louis  XI.  In  regard  to  the  admirable,  spirited  invention,  which 
betrays  a  great  master,  as  well  as  the  finished  execution,  they  rank 
uncommonly  high. 

"  An  antique  bust  of  a  youth,  in  Carrara  marble,  which,  in  form 
and  expression,  resembles  the  eldest  son  of  Laocoon,  is  in  a  very  noble 
style,  uncommonly  animated,  and  of  admirable  workmanship.  In 
particular,  the  antique  piece  of  the  neck  and  the  treatment  of  the 
hair  are  very  delicate.  The  nose  and  ears  are  new  ;  a  small  part  of 
the  ehin,  too,  and  the  upper  lip,  are  completed  in  a  masterly  manner 
in  wax. 

"  A  candelabrum  in  bronze,  about  ten  inches  high,  is  of  the  most 
beautiful  kind.  The  lower  part  is  formed  by  a  sitting  female  figure 
holding  a  wreath.  This  fine  and  graceful  design  belongs  to  the  period 
when  art  was  in  its  perfection.  This  exquisite  relic,  which  was  pur 
chased  for  Mr.  Rogers  in  Italy,  by  the  able  connoisseur,  Mr.  Millin- 
gon,  is,  unfortunately,  much  damaged  in  the  epidermis. 

"  Among  the  elegant  articles  of  antique  ornament  in  gold,  the 
earrings  and  clasps,  by  which  so  many  descriptions  of  the  ancient 
poets  are  called  to  mind,  there  are  likewise  whole  figures  beat  out  in 
thin  gold  leaves.  The  principal  article  is  a  golden  circlet,  about  two 
and  a  half  inches  in  diameter,  the  workmanship  of  which  is  as  rich 
and  skilful  as  could  be  made  in  our  times. 

"  Of  the  many  Greek  vases  in  terra  cotta,  there  are  five,  some  of 
them  large,  in  the  antique  taste,  with  black  figures  on  a  yellow 
ground,  which  are  of  considerable  importance.  A  flat  dish,  on  the 
outer  side  of  which  five  young  men  are  rubbing  themselves  with  the 
strigil,  and  five  wrashing  themselves,  yellow  on  a  black  ground,  is  to 
be  classed  with  vases  of  the  first  rank,  for  the  gracefulness  of  the 
invention,  and  the  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  execution.  In  this 
collection,  it  is  excelled  only  by  a  vase,  rounded  below,  so  that  it 
must  be  placed  in  a  peculiar  stand.  The  combat  of  Achilles  with 
Penthcsilia  is  represented  upon  it,  likewise,  in  red  figures.  This 
composition,  consisting  of  thirteen  figures,  is  by  far  the  most  distin 
guished,  not  only  of  all  representations  of  the  subject,  but,  in  gen 
eral,  of  all  representations  of  combats  which  I  have  hitherto  seen  on 
vases,  in  the  beauty  and  variety  of  the  attitudes,  in  masterly  draw 
ing,  as  well  as  in  the  spirit  and  delicacy  of  the  execution.  It  is  in 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS.  55 

the  happy  medium  between  the  severe  and  the  quite  free  style,  so 
that  in  the  faces  there  are  some  traces  of  the  antique  manner." 

The  estimation  in  which  the  venerable  poet  is  held,  as  a  judge  of 
art,  may  be  inferred  by  the  following  extract  from  a  letter  addressed 
to  him  by  Sir  David  Wilkie,  under  date  of  Constantinople,  30th 
December,  1840  : 

"  Without  any  claim  for  this  invasion  upon  your  valuable  time, 
other  than  being  in  this  distant  capital  in  presence  of  so  many  objects 
which  your  knowledge  of  life  and  materials  for  art  would  so  enable 
you  to  appreciate  and  put  upon  record,  you  will  yet,  perhaps,  excuse 
the  few  ideas  I  try  to  put  together,  wishing  only  that  I  had  your 
eyes  to  see,  with  your  taste  and  judgment  to  select  what  were  best  to 
note  down,  and  what  most  worthy  to  remember.1' 

After  condoling  with  him  on  the  loss  of  Lord  Holland,  whom  he 
had  last  met  in  company  with  Moore  and  Rogers,  Wilkie  proceeds  : 

"  Could  I  see  you  in  quiet,  as  in  Brighton  and  in  St.  James'  Place, 
and  in  a  suitable  frame  of  mind  for  lighter  subjects,  what  a  deal  the 
journey  we  have  made  would  suggest  for  discussion  !  Mr.  William 
Woodburn,  who  is  with  me,  frequently  speaks  of  you  ;  and  your 
name  was  often  mentioned,  as  we  passed  in  review  at  the  Hague, 
Amsterdam,  at  Munich  and  at  Vienna,  the  richest  stores  of  European 
art ;  among  which  we  saw  in  those  places  two  great  masters,  almost 
in  their  greatest  triumphs — Rubens  and  Rembrandt ;  and  we  scarce 
ly  know  any  one  who  could  better  judge  of  their  splendors  than 
yourself." 

It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  Rogers  was  one  of  the  few  who 
stood  by  Sheridan  in  his  last  days  ;  supplying  his  pecuniary  needs 
to  a  great  extent,  and  manifesting  a  timely  sympathy  towards  him. 
It  was  discovered,  after  Sheridan's  death,  that  sums  of  money  which 
had  been  supposed  to  come  from  other  high  quarters  to  minister  to 
his  by  no  means  slender  wants  were  in  reality  contributed  by  Rogers. 

From  an  article  entitled  Gore  House,  published  in  the  New  Monthly 
Magazine,  in  1849,  we  transcribe  a  passage  of  gossip,  that  may  pass 
for  what  it  is  worth  : 

"  The  number  of  guests  was  not  yet  complete.  They  arrived  in 
the  following  order  : 

"  Slowly,  with  the  foot  of  age,  his  head  bent  forward  and  his 
hands  extended,  camo  Mr.  S R ,  endowed  alike  with  the 


56  MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

gifts  of  Plutus  and  Apollo,  and  enjoying,  perhaps,  a  higher  reputa 
tion  for  the  possession  of  each  than  he  deserved.  If  the  couplet 

ascribed  to  Lady  B be  really  hers,  her  ladyship  seems  to  have 

thought  his  most  celebrated  poem  somewhat  over-praised  ;  it  ran 
thus: 

«  Of  R s's  Italy,  Luttrell  relates 

That  it  would  Lave  been  dished  were  it  not  for  the  plates.' 

In  this  opinion  I  do  not,  however,  coincide,  believing  some  of  his 
Ausonian  fragments  —  above  all,  those  descriptive  of  Venice  —  to  be 
the  finest  he  ever  wrote,  and  worthy,  of  themselves  alone,  to  place 
him  high  amongst  poets.  Of  the  peculiarities  of  which  I  had  heard 
so  much,  but  one  was  strikingly  exemplified  —  his  fondness  for  female 
admiration.  Other  men  have  been  anxious  to  engross  the  attention 
of  a  beautiful  woman,  before  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  Mr.  R to  at 
tempt  it ;  but  very  few,  I  imagine,  have  tried  to  turn  it  in  the  same 
direction.  Like  a  young  Frenchman  whom  I  formerly  knew  in 
Paris,  his  motto  has  been,  —  not  '  coinme  je  1'aime  !  '  but  '  comme 
elle  m 'adore  !  '  Goldsmith  is  said  to  have  been  jealous  if  a  pretty 
woman  attracted  more  notice  than  himself;  and  it  was  no  uncom 
mon  thing  for  R.  to  sulk  for  a  whole  evening,  if  the  prettiest  woman 
in  the  company  failed  to  make  much  of  him." 

We  have  the  curtain  agreeably  lifted  from  the  social  converse  of 
Rogers,  in  the  following  little  passage  from  Mr.  Bryant's  account  of 
his  visit  to  the  veteran  bard  :  "  There  are  not,"  says  Mr.  B.,  "  many 
more  beautiful  lines  in  the  English  language, — there  are  certainly 
none  so  beautiful  in  the  writings  of  the  author,  —  as  those  of  Mrs. 
Barbauld,  which  the  poet  Rogers  is  fond  of  repeating  to  his  friends, 
in  his  fine,  deliberate  manner,  with  just  enough  of  tremulousness  in 
that  grave  voice  of  his  to  give  his  recitation  the  effect  of  deep 
feeling  : 

'  Life  !  we  've  been  long  together, 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather. 

'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear  ; 

Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear  ; 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time  ; 

Say  not  good-night,  but,  in  some  happier  clime, 
Bid  me  good-morning.' 


MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   KOGERS.  57 

It  makes  the  thought  of  death  cheerful  to  represent  it  thus,  as  Life 
looking  in  upon  you  with  a  glad  greeting,  amidst  fresh  airs  and 
glorious  light.  The  lines,  we  infer,  were  written  by  Mrs.  Barbanld 
in  her  late  old  age,  and  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  aged  poet,  who 
some  years  since  entered  upon  the  fifth  score  of  his  years,  should  find 
them  haunting  his  memory." 

Long  may  it  be  before  the  decease  of  the  venerable  poet  may 
open  to  the  world  the  rich  stores  for  his  biography,  which  must,  no 
doubt,  exist  in  his  correspondence  and  commonplace  books  !  Till 
that  time  comes,  we  must  be  content  with  the  memoranda  which  are 
scattered  here  and  there  through  the  literary  history  of  the  century, 
imperfect  and  unsatisfactory,  but  furnishing  an  index  to  what  re 
mains  behind. 

But  now  we  cannot  bring  this  sketch  to  a  more  acceptable  con 
clusion  than  by  copying  the  latest  notice  we  have  seen  of  a  spot 
that  will  long  remain  classic  ground,  from  the  pen  of  an  American 
traveller.  Mr.  Tuckerman  has  been  speaking  of  St.  James'  Park, 
and  its  various  associations,  which  could  not  long  withdraw  the 
literary  enthusiast  from  the  bit  of  green-sward  before  the  window 
of  Rogers,  which  every  spring  morning,  before  the  poet's  health 
sent  him  into  suburban  exile,  was  covered  with  sparrows,  expectant 
of  their  food  from  his  kindly  hand.  "  The  view  of  the  park,"  he 
adds,  "  from  this  drawing-room  bow-window  instantly  disenchants 
the  sight  of  all  town  associations.  The  room  where  this  vista 
nature  in  her  genuine  English  aspect  opens,  is  the  same  so  memor 
able  for  the  breakfasts  for  many  years  enjoyed  by  the  hospitable 
bard  and  his  fortunate  guests.  An  air  of  sadness  pervaded  the 
apartment,  in  the  absence  of  him  whose  taste  and  urbanity  were  yet 
apparent  in  every  object  around.  The  wintry  sun  threw  a  gleam, 
mellow  as  the  light  of  the  fond  reminiscence  he  so  gracefully  sung, 
upon  the  Turkey  carpet  and  veined  mahogany.  It  fell,  as  if  in  pen 
sive  greeting,  on  the  famous  Titian,  lit  up  the  cool  tints  of  Watteau, 
and  made  the  bust  found  in  the  sea  near  Pozzoli  wear  a  creamy  hue. 
When  the  old  housekeeper  left  the  room,  and  I  glanced  from  the 
priceless  canvas  or  classic  urn  to  the  twinkling  turf,  all  warmed  by 
the  casual  sunshine,  the  sensation  of  comfort,  never  so  completely 
realized  as  in  a  genuine  London  breakfast-room,  was  touched  to  finer 
issues  by  the  atmosphere  of  beauty  and  the  memory  of  genius.  The 


58  MEMOIR   OF   SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

groups  of  poets,  artists  and  wits,  whose  commune  had  filled  this 
room  with  the  electric  glow  of  intellectual  life,  with  gems  of  art, 
glimpses  of  nature,  and  the  charm  of  intelligent  hospitality,  to  evoke 
all  that  was  most  gifted  and  cordial,  reassembled  once  more.  I 
could  not  but  appreciate  the  suggestive  character  of  every  ornament. 
There  was  a  Murillo,  to  inspire  the  Spanish  traveller  with  half-for 
gotten  anecdotes  ;  a  fine  Reynolds,  to  whisper  of  the  literary  dinners 
where  Garrick  and  Burke  discussed  the  theatre  and  the  senate  ;  Mil 
ton's  agreement  for  the  sale  of  '  Paradise  Lost,'  emphatic  symbol  of 
the  uncertainty  of  fame  ;  a  sketch  of  Stonehenge  by  Turner,  provoca 
tive  of  endless  discussion  to  artist  and  antiquary  ;  bronzes,  medals 
and  choice  volumes,  whose  very  names  would  inspire  an  afiluent 
talker,  in  this  most  charming  imaginable  nook  for  a  morning  collo 
quy  and  a  social  breakfast.  I  noticed,  in  a  glass  vase  over  the  fire 
place,  numerous  sprigs  of  orange-blossoms  in  every  grade  of  decay, 
some  crumbling  to  dust,  and  others  but  partially  faded.  These,  it 
appeared,  were  all  plucked  from  bridal  wreaths,  the  gift  of  their  fair 
wearers,  on  the  wedding-day,  to  the  good  old  poet-friend  ;  and  he, 
in  his  bachelor  fantasy,  thus  preserved  the  withered  trophies.  They 
spoke  at  once  of  sentiment  and  of  solitude." 


POEMS. 


0  !  COULD  my  mind,  unfolded  in  my  page, 

Enlighten  climes,  and  mould  a  future  age  ; 

There  as  it  glowed,  with  noblest  frenzy  fraught 

Dispense  the  treasures  of  exalted  thought  ; 

To  virtue  wake  the  pulses  of  the  heart, 

And  bid  the  tear  of  emulation  start  ! 

0  !  could  it  still,  through  each  succeeding  year, 

My  life,  my  manners,  and  my  name  endear  ; 

And,  when  the  poet  sleeps  in  silent  dust, 

Still  hold  communion  with  the  wise  and  just  !  — 

Yet  should  this  Verse,  my  leisure's  best  resource, 

When  through  the  world  it  steals  its  secret  course, 

Revive  but  once  a  generous  wish  supprest, 

Chase  but  a  sigh  or  charm  a  care  to  rest  ; 

In  one  good  deed  a  fleeting  hour  employ, 

Or  flush  one  faded  cheek  with  honest  joy  ; 

Blest  were  my  lines,  though  limited  their  sphere, 

Though  short  their  date,  as  his  who  traced  them  here. 

1793. 


THE 


PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY 


IN  TWO  PARTS. 

1792. 

.    .    .    .    Hoc  est 

Vivere  bis,  vM  posse  priorc  frui.  MART. 


PART     I. 

Dolce  sentier, • 

Colle,  che  mi  piacesti,     .     . 
Ov'  ancor  per  usanza  Amor  mi  mena ; 
Ben  riconosco  in  voi  1'  usate  forme. 
Non,  Insso,  in  me.  PKTRARCH. 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  FIRST  PAHT. 


THE  Poem  begins  with  the  description  of  an  obscure  village,  and  of  the 
pleasing  melancholy  Avhich  it  excites  on  being  revisited  after  a  long  absence. 
This  mixed  sensation  is  an  effect  of  the  Memory.  From  an  effect  we  natu 
rally  ascend  to  the  cause  ;  and  the  subject  proposed  is  then  unfolded,  with 
an  investigation  of  the  nature  and  leading  principles  of  this  faculty. 

It  is  evident  that  our  ideas  flow  in  continual  succession,  and  introduce 
each  other  with  a  certain  degree  of  regularity.  They  are  sometimes  excited 
by  sensible  objects,  and  sometimes  by  an  internal  operation  of  the  mind. 
Of  the  former  species  is  most  probably  the  memory  of  brutes  ;  and  its  many 
sources  of  pleasure  to  them,  as  well  as  to  us,  are  considered  in  the  first 
part.  The  latter  is  the  most  perfect  degree  of  memory,  and  forms  the  sub 
ject  of  the  second. 

When  ideas  have  any  relation  whatever,  they  are  attractive  of  each  other 
in  the  mind  ;  and  the  perception  of  any  object  naturally  leads  to  the  idea 
of  another,  which  was  connected  with  it  either  in  time  or  place,  or  which 
can  be  compared  or  contrasted  with  it.  Hence  arises  our  attachment  to 
inanimate  objects;  hence,  also,  in  some  degree,  the  love  of  our  country,  and 
the  emotion  with  which  we  contemplate  the  celebrated  scenes  of  antiquity. 
Hence  a  picture  directs  our  thoughts  to  the  original  ;  and,  as  cold  and 
darkness  suggest  forcibly  the  ideas  of  heat  and  light,  he  who  feels  tho 
infirmities  of  age  dwells  most  on  whatever  reminds  him  of  the  vigor  and 
vivacity  of  his  youth. 

The  associating  principle,  as  here  employed,  is  no  less  conducive  to  virtue 
than  to  happiness  ;  and,  as  such,  it  frequently  discovers  itself  in  the  most 
tumultuous  scenes  of  life.  It  addresses  our  finer  feelings,  and  gives  exer 
cise  to  every  mild  and  generous  propensity. 

Not  confined  to  man,  it  extends  through  all  animated  nature  ;  and  its 
effects  are  peculiarly  striking  in  the  domestic  tribes. 


PLEASURES.  OF  MEMORY. 


PART   I. 

TWILIGHT'S  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  village-green, 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene. 
Stilled  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broke, 
When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flocked  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 
Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales,  and  legendary  lore. 
All,  all  are  fled ;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 
All,  all  are  fled ;  yet  still  I  linger  here  ! 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear  ? 

Mark  yon  old  Mansion  frowning  through  the  trees, 
Whose  hollow  turret  woos  the  whistling  breeze. 
That  casement,  arched  with  ivy's  brownest  shade, 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  conveyed. 
The  mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-grown  court, 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport ; 
When  all  things  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new, 
And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 


64  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  revealed, 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest. 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallowed  guest ! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call ! 
0,  haste, —  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 
That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state, 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate. 

Now  stained  with  dews,  with  cobwebs  darkly  hung, 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung ; 
When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree, 
We  sweetened  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest ; 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
'T  was  here  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound ; 
And  turned  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 
'T  was  here,  at  eve,  we  formed  our  fairy  ring ; 
And  Fancy  fluttered  on  her  wildest  wing. 
Giants  and  Genii  chained  each  wondering  ear ; 
And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 
Oft  with  the  babes  we  wandered  in  the  wood, 
Or  viewed  the  forest  feats  of  Robin  Hood : 
Oft,  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour, 
With  startling  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower ; 
O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 
Murdered  by  ruffian  hands,  when  smiling  in  its  sleep. 

Ye  Household  Deities  !  whose  guardian  eye * 
Marked  each  pure  thought,  ere  registered  on  high  • 
Still,  still  ye  walk  the  consecrated  ground, 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend, 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feelings  of  a  friend. 


PLEASURES    OF   MEMORY.  65 

The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight, 

With  old  achievement  charms  the  wildered  sight ; 

And  still,  with  Heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest, 

On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 

The  screen  unfolds  its  many-colored  chart. 

The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 

That  faithful  monitor  't  was  heaven  to  hear, 

When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near ; 

And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime, 

Forgot  to  trace  the  feathered  feet  of  Time  ? 

That  massive  beam,  with  curious  carvings  wrought, 

Whence  the  caged  linnet  soothed  my  pensive  thought ; 

Those  muskets,  cased  writh  venerable  rust ; 

Those  once-loved  forms,  still  breathing  through  their  dust, 

Still,  from  the  frame  in  mould  gigantic  cast, 

Starting  to  life  — -  all  whisper  ofjthe  Past ! 

As  through  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove, 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove  ! 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west,2 
We  watched  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing, 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring  ! 
How  oft  inscribed,  with  Friendship's  votive  rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silvered  by  the  touch  of  Time ; 
Soared  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Through  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer-shade ; 
Or  strewed  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat, 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  his  lone  retreat ! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene ; 
The  tangled  wood-walk  and  the  tufted  green ! 
Indul^m^.-.Mj^jQLEY_  wakes,  andTJLoJ_thej_live  ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  Light  can  give. 


66  PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY. 

Thou  first,  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns  below 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know ; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades  and  life  forgets  to  charm ; 
Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke  !  —  to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept  and  the  poet's  song. 
What  softened  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
When  o'er  the  landscape  Time's  meek  twilight  steals ! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play ; 
Thy  tempered  gleams  of  happiness  resigned 
Glance  on  the  darkened  mirror  of  the  mind. 

The  School's  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses  gray, 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant-feet  across  the  lawn ; 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air, 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear,3 
Some  little  friendship  formed  and  cherished  here ; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions  and  romantic  dreams  ! 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  Gypsy's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed; 
Gazed  on  her  sunburnt  face  with  silent  awe, 
Her  tattered  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw  ; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o'er ; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore, 
Imps,  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlet  bred, 
From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed ; 
Whose  dark  eyes  flashed  through  locks  of  blackest  shade, 
When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bayed  :  — 


PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY.  67 

And  heroes  fled  the  Sibyl's  muttered  call, 

Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard-wall. 

As  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew, 

And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searching  view, 

How  throbbed  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and  fears. 

To  learn  the  color  of  my  future  years  ! 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flushed  my  breast ; 
This  truth  once  known  —  To  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-gray), 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt. 
As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store, 
And  sighed  to  think  that  little  was  no  more, 
He  breathed  his  prayer,  "Long  may  such  goodness  live  !  " 
'T  was  all  he  gave,  't  was  all  he  had  to  give. 
Angels,  when  Mercy's  mandate  winged  their  flight, 
Had  stopt  to  dwell  with  pleasure  on  the  sight. 

But  hark !  through  those  old  firs,  with  sullen  swell, 
The  church-clock  strikes  !  ye  tender  scenes,  farewell ! 
It  calls  me  hence,  beneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  Time  may  soon  efface. 

On  yon  gray  stone,  that  fronts  the  chancel-door, 
Worn  smooth  by  busy  feet  now  seen  no  more, 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  through  the  ring, 
When  the  heart  danced,  and  life  was  in  its  spring ; 
Alas  !  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth, 
That  faintly  echoed  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

The  glow-worm  loves  her  emerald-light  to  shed 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  his  hoary  head. 
Oft,  as  he  turned  the  greensward  with  his  spade, 
He  lectured  every  youth  that  round  him  played ; 


68  PLEASUEES    OF   MEMORY. 

And,  calmly  pointing  where  our  fathers  lay, 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,  hush  !  while  here  alone 
I  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  life  !   Instructors  of  my  youth  ! 
Who  first  unveiled  the  hallowed  form  of  Truth ! 
Whose  every  word  enlightened  and  endeared ; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered ; 
In  Friendship's  silent  register  ye  live, 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  Art  can  give. 

But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  pleasure  sleep, 
When  only  Sorrow  wrakes,  and  wakes  to  weep, 
What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 
With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined  ? 

Ethereal  Power  !  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recall' st  the  far-fled  spirit  of  delight ; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
Which  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good  ; 
Blest  MEMORY,  hail !  0  grant  the  grateful  Muse, 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  Nature's  living  hues, 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empire  roll, 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Lulled  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain, 
Our  thoughts  are  linked  by  many  a  hidden  chain, 
i  Awake  but  one,  and,  lo  !  what  myriads  rise  ! 4 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  other  flies. 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
Delight  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense, 
Brightens  or  fades  ;  yet  all,  with  magic  art, 
Control  the  latent  fibres  of  the  heart. 
As  studious  PROSPERO'S  mysterious  spell 
Drew  every  subject-spirit  to  his  cell ; 


PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY.  69 

Each,  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires, 
As  judgment  dictates  or  the  scene  inspires. 
Each  thrills  the  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  source 
Whence  the  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course, 
And  through  the  frame  invisibly  convey 
The  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play ; 
Man's  little  universe  at  once  o'ercast, 
At  once  illumined  when  the  cloud  is  past. 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore ; 
From  Reason's  faintest  ray  to  NEWTON  soar. 
What  different  spheres  to  human  bliss  assigned  ! 
What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind  ! 
Yet,  mark  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  wrought ; 
0,  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 

The  adventurous  boy,  that  asks  his  little  share, 
And  hies  from  home  with  many  a  gossip's  prayer, 
Turns  on  the  neighboring  hill,  once  more  to  see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy ; 
And,  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees, 
The  smoke's  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the  breeze, 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep, 
The  church-yard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep;5 
All  rouse  Reflection's  sadly-pleasing  train, 
And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  TUPIA  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before, 
And,  writh  the  sons  of  Science,  wooed  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swelled  their  strange  expanse  of  sail ; 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu,6 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe, 
And  all  his  soul  best  loved  —  such  tears  he  shed, 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 


70  PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY. 

Long  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast, 
Long  watched  the  streaming  signal  from  the  mast ; 
Till  twilight's  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eve, 
And  fairy-forests  fringed  the  evening  sky. 

So  Scotia's  Queen,  as  slowly  dawned  the  day/ 
Rose  on  her  couch  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  blessed  the  beacon's  glimmering  height, 
That  faintly  tipt  the  feathery  surge  with  light ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portrayed 
Each  castled  cliif  and  brown  monastic  shade : 
All  touched  the  talisman's  resistless  spring, 
And,  lo  !  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the  wing  ! 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire,8 
As  summer-clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 
And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth, 
Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror's  truth. 
Hence  home-felt  pleasure  prompts  the  Patriot's  sigh ; [ 
This  makes  him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die. 
For  this  young  FOSCARI,  whose  hapless  fate10 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate, 
When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away, 
To  Sorrow's  long  soliloquies  a  prey, 
When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause, 
For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws ; 
Glad  to  return,  though  Hope  could  grant  no  more, 
And  chains  and  torture  hailed  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart ; n 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Aerial  forms  in  Tempe's  classic  vale 
Glance  through  the  gloom  and  whisper  in  the  gale ; 
In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  LAURA  dwell, 
And  watch  and  weep  in  ELOISA'S  cell.12 


PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY.  71 

'T  was  ever  thus.     Young  AMMOX,  when  he  sought13 
Where  Ilium  stood  and  where  PELIDES  fouo-ht, 

o      J 

Sate  at  the  helm  himself.     No  meaner  hand 

Steered  through  the  waves ;  and,  when  he  struck  the  land> 

Such  in  his  soul  the  ardor  to  explore, 

PELiDES-like,  he  leaped  the  first  ashore. 

'T  was  ever  thus.     As  now  at  VIRGIL'S  tomb14 

We  bless  the  shade  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom ; 

So  TULLY  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  time,15 

On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime ; 

When  at  his  feet,  in  honored  dust  disclosed, 

The  immortal  Sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 

And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung, 

Where  once  a  PLATO  taught,  a  PINDAR  suno-  • 

O        7  C3  J 

Who  now  but  meets  him  musing,  when  he  roves 
His  ruined  Tusculan's  romantic  groves? 
In  Rome's  great  forum,  who  but  hears  him  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul? 

And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait  gives : 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives  ! 
Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid  ; 
And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  his  shade ! 
Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep,10 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep : 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 
Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play ; 
He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 
Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

What  though  the  iron  school  of  War  erase 
Each  milder  virtue  and  each  softer  grace  ; 


72  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 

What  though  the  fiend's  torpedo-touch  arrest 
Each  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast ; 
Still  shall  this  active  principle  preside, 
And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity's  self  denied. 

The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a  foreign  shore, 
Condemned  to  climb  his  mountain-cliffs  no  more, 
If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweet,  so  wild,17 
His  heart  would  spring  to  hear  it  when  a  child, 
Melts  at  the  long-lost  scenes  that  round  him  rise. 
And  sinks  a  martyr  to  repentant  sighs. 

Ask  not  if  courts  or  camps  dissolve  the  charm  : 
Say  why  VESPASIAN  loved  his  Sabine  farm ; 18 
Why  great  NAVARRE,  when  France  and  Freedom  bled,19 
Sought  the  lone  limits  of  a  forest-shed. 
When  DIOCLETIAN'S  self-corrected  mind20 
The  imperial  fasces  of  a  world  resigned, 
Say  why  we  trace  the  labors  of  his  spade 
In  calm  Salona's  philosophic  shade. 
Say,  when  contentious  CHARLES  renounced  a  throne21 
To  muse  with  monks  and  meditate  alone,22 
What  from  his  soul  the  parting  tribute  drew  ? 
What  claimed  the  sorrows  of  a  last  adieu  ? 
The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his  tranquil  breast 
Ere  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppressed. 

Undamped  by  time,  the  generous  Instinct  glows 
Far  as  Angola's  sands,  as  Zembla's  snows ; 
Glows  in  the  tiger's  den,  the  serpent's  nest, 
On  every  form  of  varied  life  imprest. 
The  social  tribes  its  choicest  influence  hail :  — 
And  when  the  drum  beats  briskly  in  the  gale, 
The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  sound, 
And  with  young  vigor  wheels  the  pasture  round. 


PLEASUEES   OF   MEMORY.  73 

Oft  has  the  aged  tenant  of  the  vale 
Leaned  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  talc ; 
Oft  have  his  lips  the  grateful  tribute  breathed, 
From  sire  to  son  with  pious  zeal  bequeathed. 
When  o'er  the  blasted  heath  the  day  declined, 
And  on  the  scathed  oak  warred  the  winter- wind ;  "- 
When  not  a  distant  taper's  twinkling  ray 
Gleamed  o'er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his  way ; 
When  not  a  sheep-bell  soothed  his  listening  ear, 
And  the  big  rain-drops  told  the  tempest  near ; 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry,2" 
The  track  that  shunned  his  sad,  inquiring  eye ; 
And  win  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent, 
With  warmth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent, 
That  his  charmed  hand  the  careless  rein  resigned, 
And  doubts  and  terrors  vanished  from  his  mind. 

Recall  the  traveller,  whose  altered  form 
Has  borne  the  buffet  of  the  mountain-storm ; 
And  who  will  first  his  fond  impatience  meet  ? 
His  faithful  dog  's  already  at  his  feet ! 
Yes,  though  the  porter  spurn  him  from  the  door, 
Though  all,  that  knew  him,  know  his  face  no  more, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each, 
With  that  mute  eloquence  which  passes  speech. — 
And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die  ! 
Yet  who  shall  bid  the  watchful  servant  fly  ? 
The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of  earth. 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth, 
These,  when  to  guard  Misfortune's  sacred  grave, 
Will  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest,  or  the  vows  of  love  ? 
7 


74  PLEASURES    OF   MEMORY. 

Say,  through  the  clouds  what  compass  points  her  flight? 
Monarchs  have  gazed,  and  nations  blessed  the  sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  mountains  rise, 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies :  — 
'T  is  vain  !  through  Ether's  pathless  wilds  she  goes, 
And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  truth  shall  Harlem's  walls  attest,24 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 
When,  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief, 
With  looks  that  asked,  yet  dared  not  hope  relief. 
Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valor  clung, 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 
'T  was  thine  to  animate  her  closing  eye ; 
Alas  !  't  was  thine  perchance  the  first  to  die, 
Crushed  by  her  meagre  hand  when  welcomed  from  the  sky. 

Hark  !  the  bee  winds  her  small  but  mellow  horn,25 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  morn. 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course, 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 
'T  is  noon,  't  is  night.     That  eye  so  finely  wrought, 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought, 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind ; 
Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined ! 
Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell  ? 
Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  ? 
With  conscious  truth  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  summer-scents,  that  charmed  her  as  she  flew  ? 
Hail,  MEMORY,  hail !  thy  universal  reign 
Guards  the  least  link  of  Being's  glorious  chain. 


THE 


PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY 


PART     II. 

Dcllc  cose  custode  e  dispensiera. 

TASSO. 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  SECOND   PART. 


THE  Memory  has  hitherto  acted  only  in  subservience  to  the  senses,  and 
so  far  man  is  not  eminently  distinguished  from  other  animals  ;  but,  with 
respect  to  man,  she  has  a  higher  province,  and  is  often  busily  employed 
when  excited  by  no  external  cause  whatever.  She  preserves,  for  his  use, 
the  treasures  of  art  and  science,  history  and  philosophy.  She  colors  all  the 
prospects  of  life  ;  for  we  can  only  anticipate  the  future  by  concluding  what 
is  possible  from  what  is  past.  On  her  agency  depends  every  effusion  of  the 
Fancy,  who  with  the  boldest  effort  can  only  compound  or  transpose,  aug 
ment  or  diminish,  the  materials  which  she  has  collected,  and  still  retains. 

When  the  first  emotions  of  despair  have  subsided,  and  sorrow  has  soft 
ened  into  melancholy,  she  amuses  with  a  retrospect  of  innocent  pleasures, 
and  inspires  that  noble  confidence  which  results  from  the  consciousness  of 
having  acted  well.  When  sleep  has  suspended  the  organs  of  sense  from 
their  office,  she  not  only  supplies  the  mind  with  images,  but  assists  in  their 
combination.  And,  even  in  madness  itself,  when  the  soul  is  resigned  over 
to  the  tyranny  of  a  distempered  imagination,  she  revives  past  perceptions, 
and  awakens  that  train  of  thought  which  was  formerly  most  familiar. 

Nor  are  we  pleased  only  with  a  review  of  the  brighter  passages  of  life. 
Events  the  most  distressing  in  their  immediate  consequences  are  often 
cherished  in  remembrance  with  a  degree  of  enthusiasm. 

But  the  world  and  its  occupations  give  a  mechanical  impulse  to  the  pas 
sions,  which  is  not  very  favorable  to  the  indulgence  of  this  feeling.  It  is 
in  a  calm  and  well-regulated  mind  that  the  memory  is  most  perfect  ;  and 
solitude  is  her  best  sphere  of  action.  With  this  sentiment  is  introduced  a 
Tale  illustrative  of  her  influence  in  solitude,  sickness,  and  sorrow.  And  the 
subject  having  now  been  considered,  so  far  as  it  relates  to  man  and  the 
animal  world,  the  Poem  concludes  with  a  conjecture  that  superior  beings 
are  blest  with  a  nobler  exercise  of  this  faculty. 


\t^ 

THE   PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY.  77 


PART   II. 

SWEET  MEMORY,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 
Oft  up  the  stream  of  Time  I  turn  my  sail, 
To  view  the  fairy-haunts  of  long-lost  hours, 
Blest  with  far  greener  shades,  far  fresher  flowers. 

Ages  and  climes  remote  to  thee  impart 
What  charms  in  Genius  and  refines  in  Art ; 
Thee,  in  whose  hands  the  keys  of  Science  dwell, 
The  pensive  portress  of  her  holy  cell ; 
Whose  constant  vigils  chase  the  chilling  damp 
Oblivion  steals  upon  her  vestal-lamp. 

They  in  their  glorious  course  the  guides  of  Youth,1 
Whose  language  breathed  the  eloquence  of  Truth : 
Whose  life,  beyond  preceptive  wisdom,  taught 
The  great  in  conduct,  and  the  pure  in  thought ; 
These  still  exist,  by  thee  to  Fame  consigned,2 
Still  speak  and  act,  the  models  of  mankind. 

From  thee  gay  Hope  he  r  airy  coloring  draws : 
And  Fancy's  flights  are  subject  to  thy  laws. 
From  thee  that  bosom-spring  of  rapture  flows, 
Which  only  Virtue,  tranquil  Virtue,  knows. 

When  Joy's  bright  sun  has  shed  his  evening-ray, 
And  Hope's  delusive  meteors  cease  to  play; 
When  clouds  on  clouds  the  smiling  prospect  close, 
Still  through  the  gloom  thy  star  serenely  glows : 
Like  yon  fair  orb,  she  gilds  the  brow  of  night 
With  the  mild  magic  of  reflected  light. 
7* 


THE   PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY. 

The  beauteous  maid  who  bids  the  world  adieu. 
Oft  of  that  world  will  snatch  a  fond  review  : 
Oft  at  the  shrine  neglect  her  beads,  to  trace 
Some  social  scene,  some  dear,  familiar  face  : 
And  ere,  with  iron  tongue,  the  vesper-bell 
Bursts  through  the  cypress-walk,  the  convent-cell, 
Oft  will  her  warm  and  wayward  heart  revive, 
To  love  and  joy  still  tremblingly  alive ;  • 
The  whispered  vow,  the  chaste  caress  prolong, 
Weave  the  light  dance  and  swell  the  choral  song ; 
With  rapt  ear  drink  the  enchanting  serenade, 
And,  as  it  melts  along  the  moonlight-glade, 
To  each  soft  note  return  as  soft  a  sigh, 
And  bless  the  youth  that  bids  her  slumbers  fly. 

But  not  till  Time  has  calmed  the  ruffled  breast, 
Are  these  fond  dreams  of  happiness  confest. 
Not  till  the  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 
Is  Heaven's  sweet  smile  reflected  on  the  wave. 

From  Guinea's  coast  pursue  the  lessening  sail, 
And  catch  the  sounds  that  sadden  every  gale. 
Tell,  if  thou  canst,  the  sum  of  sorrows  there ; 
Mark  the  fixed  gaze,  the  wild  and  frenzied  glare, 
The  racks  of  thought,  and  freezings  of  despair ! 
But  pause  not  then  —  beyond  the  western  wave, 
Go,  see  the  captive  bartered  as  a  slave  ! 
Crushed  till  his  high,  heroic  spirit  bleeds, 
And  from  his  nerveless  frame  indignantly  recedes. 

Yet  here,  even  here,  with  pleasures  long  resigned, 
Lo  !  MEMORY  bursts  the  twilight  of  the  mind. 
Her  dear  delusions  soothe  his  sinking  soul, 
When  the  rude  scourge  assumes  its  base  control ; 


THE   PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY.  79 

And  o'er  Futurity's  blank  page  diffuse 

The  full  reflection  of  her  vivid  hues. 

'Tis  but  to  die  —  and  then,  to  weep  no  more, 

Then  will  he  wake  on  Congo's  distant  shore ; 

Beneath  his  plantain's  ancient  shade  renew 

The  simple  transports  that  with  freedom  flew ; 

Catch  the  cool  breeze  that  musky  Evening  blows, 

And  quaff  the  palm's  rich  nectar  as  it  glows  ; 

The  oral  tale  of  elder  time  rehearse, 

And  chant  the  rude,  traditionary  verse 

With  those,  the  loved  companions  of  his  youth, 

When  life  was  luxury,  and  friendship  truth. 

Ah,  why  should  Virtue  fear  the  frowns  of  Fate?3 
Hers  what  no  wealth  can  buy,  no  power  create  ! 
A  little  world  of  clear  and  cloudless  day, 
Nor  wrecked  by  storms,  nor  mouldered  by  decay ; 
A  world,  with  MEMORY'S  ceaseless  sunshine  blest. 
The  home  of  Happiness,  an  honest  breast. 

But  most  we  mark  the  wronders  of  her  reign, 
When  Sleep  has  locked  the  senses  in  her  chain. 
When  sober  Judgment  has  his  throne  resigned, 
She  smiles  away  the  chaos  of  the  mind ; 
And,  as  warm  Fancy's  bright  Elysium  glows, 
From  her  each  image  springs,  each  color  flows. 
She  is  the  sacred  guest,  the  immortal  friend, 
Oft  seen  o?er  sleeping  Innocence  to  bend, 
In  that  dead  hour  of  night  to  Silence  given, 
Whispering  seraphic  visions  of  her  heaven. 

When  the  blithe  son  of  Savoy,  journeying  round 
With  humble  wares  and  pipe  of  merry  sound, 
From  his  green  vale  and  sheltered  cabin  hies, 
And  scales  the  Alps  to  visit  foreign  skies ; 


80  THE   PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY. 

Though  far  below  the  forked  lightnings  play, 
And  at  his  feet  the  thunder  dies  away, 
Oft,  in  the  saddle  rudely  rocked  to  sleep, 
While  his  mule  browses  on  the  dizzy  steep. 
With  MEMORY'S  aid,  he  sits  at  home,  and  sees 
His  children  sport  beneath  their  native  trees, 
And  bends  to  hear  their  cherub- voices  call, 
O'er  the  loud  fury  of  the  torrent's  fall. 

But  can  her  smile  with  gloomy  Madness  dwell '? 
Say,  can  she  chase  the  horrors  of  his  cell  ? 
Each  fiery  flight  on  Frenzy's  wing  restrain. 
And  mould  the  coinage  of  the  fevered  brain  ? 

Pass  but  that  grate,  which  scarce  a  gleam  supplies. 
There  in  the  dust  the  wreck  of  Genius  lies ! 
He,  whose  arresting  hand  divinely  wrought 
Each  bold  conception  in  the  sphere  of  thought ; 
And  round,  in  colors  of  the  rainbow,  threw 
Forms  ever  fair,  creations  ever  new  ! 
But,  as  he  fondly  snatched  the  wreath  of  Fame, 
The  spectre  Poverty  unnerved  his  frame. 
Cold  was  her  grasp,  a  withering  scowl  she  wore  • 
And  Hope's  soft  energies  were  felt  no  more. 
Yet  still  how  sweet  the  soothings  of  his  art ! 4 
From  the  rude  wall  what  bright  ideas  start ! 
Even  now  he  claims  the  amaranthine  wreath, 
With  scenes  that  glow,  with  images  that  breathe  ! 
And  whence  these  scenes,  these  images,  declare. 
Whence  but  from  Her  who  triumphs  o'er  despair? 

Awake,  arise  !  with  grateful  fervor  fraught, 
Go,  spring  the  mine  of  elevating  thought. 
He,  who,  through  Nature's  various  walk,  surveys 
The  good  and  fair  her  faultless  line  portrays ; 


THE    PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY.  81 

Whose  mind,  profaned  by  no  unhallowed  guest, 

Culls  from  the  crowd  the  purest  and  the  best ; 

May  range,  at  will,  bright  Fancy's  golden  clime, 

Or,  musing,  mount  where  Science  sits  sublime, 

Or  wake  the  Spirit  of  departed  Time. 

Who  acts  thus  wisely,  mark  the  moral  Muse, 

A  blooming  Eden  in  his  life  reviews  ! 

So  rich  the  culture,  though  so  small  the  space, 

Its  scanty  limits  he  forgets  to  trace. 

But  the  fond  fool,  when  evening  shades  the  sky, 

Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh  ! 5 

The  weary  waste,  that  lengthened  as  he  ran, 

Fades  to  a  blank,  and  dwindles  to  a  span  ! 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  the  triumphs  of  the  mind, 
By  truth  illumined  and  by  taste  refined  ? 
When  age  has  quenched  the  eye  and  closed  the  ear, 
Still  nerved  for  action  in  her  native  sphere, 
Oft  will  she  rise  —  with  searching  glance  pursue 
Some  long-loved  image  vanished  from  her  view ; 
Dart  through  the  deep  recesses  of  the  Past, 
O'er  dusky  forms  in  chains  of  slumber  cast ; 
With  giant-grasp  fling  back  the  folds  of  night, 
And  snatch  the  faithless  fugitive  to  light. 
So  through  the  grove  the  impatient  mother  flies, 
Each  sunless  glade,  each  secret  pathway,  tries ; 
Till  the  thin  leaves  the  truant  boy  disclose, 
Long  on  the  wood-moss  stretched  in  sweet  repose. 

Nor  yet  to  pleasing  objects  are  confined 
The  silent  feasts  of  the  reflecting  mind. 
Danger  and  death  a  dread  delight  inspire ; 
And  the  bald  veteran  glows  with  wonted  fire, 


82  THE    PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY. 

When,  richly  bronzed  by  many  a  summer-sun, 

He  counts  his  scars,  and  tells  what  deeds  were  done. 

Go,  with  Old  Thames,  view  Chelsea's  glorious  pile, 
And  ask  the  shattered  hero,  whence  his  smile  ? 
Go,  view  the  splendid  domes  of  Greenwich  —  Go, 
And  own  what  raptures  from  Reflection  flow. 

Hail,  noblest  structures  imaged  in  the  wave  ! 
A  nation's  grateful  tribute  to  the  brave. 
Hail,  blest  retreats  from  war  and  shipwreck,  hail  ! 
That  oft  arrest  the  wondering  stranger's  sail. 
Long  have  ye  heard  the  narratives  of  age, 
The  battle's  havoc  and  the  tempest's  rage ; 
Long  have  ye  known  Reflection's  genial  ray 
Gild  the  calm  close  of  Valor's  various  day. 

Time's  sombrous  touches  soon  correct  the  piece. 
Mellow  each  tint,  and  bid  each  discord  cease : 
A  softer  tone  of  light  pervades  the  whole, 
And  steals  a  pensive  languor  o'er  the  soul. 

Hast  thou  through  Eden's  wild- wood  vales  pursued 
Each  mountain-scene,  majestically  rude  ; 
To  note  the  sweet  simplicity  of  life. 
Far  from  the  din  of  Folly's  idle  strife  ; 
Nor  there  a  while,  with  lifted  eye,  revered 
That  modest  stone  which  pious  PEMBROKE  reared ; 
Which  still  records,  beyond  the  pencil's  power, 
.  The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour ; 
Still  to  the  musing  pilgrim  points  the  place 
Her  sainted  spirit  most  delights  to  trace  ? 

Thus,  with  the  manly  glow  of  honest  pride, 
O'er  his  dead  son  the  gallant  ORMOND  sighed/ 
Thus,  through  the  gloom  of  SIIENSTONE'S  fairy  grove, 
MARIA'S  urn  still  breathes  the  voice  of  love. 


THE   PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY.  83 

As  the  stern  grandeur  of  a  Gothic  tower 
Awes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning-hour, 
Than  when  the  shades  of  Time  serenely  fall 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall ; 
The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace 
Steal  from  each  year  a  melancholy  grace  ! 
And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand, 
As  the  heart  opens  in  a  foreign  land ; 
And  with  a  brother's  warmth,  a  brother's  smile, 
The  stranger  greets  each  native  of  his  isle ; 
So  scenes  of  life,  when  present  and  confest, 
Stamp  but  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast ; 
Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  viewed, 
However  trivial,  and  however  rude, 
But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh. 
With  every  claim  of  close  affinity  ! 

But  these  pure  joys  the  world  can  never  know ; 
In  gentler  climes  their  silver  currents  flow. 
Oft  at  the  silent,  shadowy  close  of  day, 
When  the  hushed  grove  has  sung  its  parting  lay ; 
When  pensive  Twilight,  in  her  dusky  car, 
Conies  slowly  on  to  meet  the  evening-star ; 
Above,  below,  aerial  murmurs  swell, 
From  hanging  wood,  brown  heath,  and  bushy  dell ! 
A  thousand  nameless  rills,  that  shun  the  light, 
Stealing  soft  music  on  the  ear  of  night. 
So  oft  the  finer  movements  of  the  soul, 
That  shun  the  sphere  of  Pleasure's  gay  control, 
In  the  still  shades  of  calm  Seclusion  rise, 
And  breathe  their  sweet,  seraphic  harmonies  ! 

Once,  and  domestic  annals  tell  the  time 
(Preserved  in  Cumbria's  rude,  romantic  clime), 


84  THE    PLEASURES    OF   MEMORY. 

When  Nature  smiled,  and  o  er  the  landscape  threw 
Her  richest  fragrance,  and  her  brightest  hue, 
A  blithe  and  blooming  Forester  explored 
Those  loftier  scenes  SALVATOR'S  soul  adored ; 
The  rocky  pass  half-hung  with  shaggy  wood, 
And  the  cleft  oak  flung  boldly  o'er  the  flood ; 
Nor  shunned  the  track,  unknown  to  human  tread, 
That  downward  to  the  night  of  caverns  led  ; 
Some  ancient  cataract's  deserted  bed. 

High  on  exulting  wing  the  heath-cock  rose, 
And  blew  his  shrill  blast  o'er  perennial  snows  ; 
Ere  the  rapt  youth,  recoiling  from  the  roar, 
Gazed  on  the  tumbling  tide  of  dread  Lodore  : 
And  through  the  rifted  clifts,  that  scaled  the  sky, 
Derwent's  clear  mirror  charmed  his  dazzled  eye. 
Each  osier  isle,  inverted  on  the  wave, 
Through  morn's  gray  mist  its  melting  colors  gave ; 
And,  o'er  the  cygnet's  haunt,  the  mantling  grove 
Its  emerald  arch  with  wild  luxuriance  wove. 

Light  as  the  breeze  that  brushed  the  orient  dew, 
From  rock  to  rock  the  young  Adventurer  flew ; 
And  day's  last  sunshine  slept  along  the  shore, 
When,  lo !   a  path  the  smile  of  welcome  wore. 
Imbowering  shrubs  with  verdure  veiled  the  sky, 
And  on  the  musk-rose  shed  a  deeper  die  ; 
Save  when  a  bright  and  momentary  gleam 
Glanced  from  the  white  foam  of  some  sheltered  stream. 

O'er  the  still  lake  the  bell  of  evening  tolled, 
And  on  the  moor  the  shepherd  penned  his  fold  ; 
And  on  the  green  hill's  side  the  meteor  played  ; 
When,  hark  !  a  voice  sung  sweetly  through  the  shade. 


THE   PLEASUEES   01?   MEMORY.  85 

It  ceased  —  yet  still  in  FLOBIO'S  fancy  sung, 
Still  on  each  note  his  captive  spirit  hung  ; 
Till  o'er  the  mead  a  cool,  sequestered  grot 
From  its  rich  roof  a  starry  lustre  shot. 
A  crystal  water  crossed  the  pebbled  floor, 
And  on  the  front  these  simple  lines  it  bore. 
Hence  away,  nor  dare  intrude  ! 
In  this  secret,  shadowy  cell 
Musing  MEMORY  loves  to  dwell, 
With  her  sister  Solitude. 
Far  from  the  busy  world  she  flies, 
To  taste  that  peace  the  world  denies. 
Entranced  flhfi~sits. ;~  from,  y Du±h._ta.  age, 
Reviewing  Life's  eventful  page  ; 
And  noting,  ere  they  fade  away, 
The  little  lines  of  yesterday. 
FLORIO  had  gained  a  rude  and  rocky  seat, 
When,  lo !   the  Genius  of  this  still  retreat ! 
Fair  was  her  form  —  but  who  can  hope  to  trace 
The  pensive  softness  of  her  angel-face  ? 
Can  VIRGIL'S  verse,  can  RAPHAEL'S  touch,  impart 
Those  finer  features  of  the  feeling  heart, 
Those  tenderer  tints  that  shun  the  careless  eye, 
And  in  the  world's  contagious  climate  die  ?• 

She  left  the  cave,  nor  marked  the  stranger  there ; 
Her  pastoral  beauty  and  her  artless  air 
Had  breathed  a  soft  enchantment  o'er  his  soul ! 
In  every  nerve  he  felt  her  blest  control ! " 
What  pure  and  white-winged  agents  of  the  sky, 
Who  rule  the  springs  of  sacred  sympathy, 
Inform  congenial  spirits  when  they  meet  ? 
Sweet  is  their  office,  as  their  natures  sweet ! 
8 


86  PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY. 

FLORIO,  with  fearful  joy,  pursued  the  maid, 
Till  through  a  vista's  moonlight-checkered  shade, 
Where  the  bat  circled,  and  the  rooks  reposed 
(Their  wars  suspended,  and  their  councils  closed), 
An  antique  mansion  burst  in  solemn  state, 
A  rich  vine  clustering  round  the'  Gothic  gate. 
Nor  paused  he  there.     The  master  of  the  scene 
Saw  his  light  step  imprint  the  dewy  green ; 
And,  slow-advancing,  hailed  him  as  his  guest, 
Won  by  the  honest  warmth  his  looks  expressed. 
He  wore  the  rustic  manners  of  a  Squire; 
Age  had  not  quenched  one  spark  of  manly  fire  ; 
But  giant  Gout  had  bound  him  in  her  chain, 
And  his  heart  panted  for  the  chase  in  vain. 

Yet  here  Remembrance,  sweetly-soothing  Power  ! 
Winged  with  delight  Confinement's  lingering  hour. 
The  fox's  brush  still  emulous  to  wear, 
He  scoured  the  county  in  his  elbow-chair ; 
And,  with  view-halloo,  roused  the  dreaming  hound, 
That  rung,  by  starts,  his  deep-toned  music  round. 

Long  by  the  paddock's  humble  pale  confined, 
His  aged  hunters  coursed  the  viewless  wind  : 
And  each,  with  glowing  energy  portrayed, 
The  far-famed  triumphs  of  the  field  displayed ; 
Usurped  the  canvas  of  the  crowded  hall, 
And  chased  a  line  of  heroes  from  the  Avail. 
There  slept  the  horn  each  jocund  echo  knew, 
And  many  a  smile  and  many  a  story  drew  ! 
High  o'er  the  hearth  his  forest-trophies  hung, 
And  their  fantastic  branches  wildly  flung. 
How  would  he  dwell  on  the  vast  antlers  there  ! 
These  dashed  the  wave,  those  fanned  the  mountain-air. 


PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY.  87 

All,  as  they  frowned,  unwritten  records  bore 
Of  gallant  feats  and  festivals  of  yore. 

But  why  the  tale  prolong?  — His  only  child, 
His  darling  JULIA,  on  the  stranger  smiled. 
Her  little  arts  a  fretful  sire  to  please, 
Her  gentle  gayety  and  native  ease. 
Had  won  his  soul ;  and  rapturous  Fancy  shed 
Her  golden  lights  and  tints  of  rosy  red. 
But,  ah  !   few  days  had  passed,  ere  the  bright  vision  fled ! 

When  Evening  tinged  the  lake's  ethereal  blue, 
And  her  deep  shades  irregularly  threw ; 
Their  shifting  sail  dropt  gently  from  the  cove, 
Down  by  St.  Herbert's  consecrated  grove  ; 8 
Whence  erst  the  chanted  hymn,  the  tapered  rite, 
Amused  the  fisher's  solitary  night ; 
And  still  the  mitred  window,  richly  wreathed, 
A  sacred  calm  through  the  brown  foliage  breathed. 

The  wild  deer,  starting  through  the  silent  glade, 
With  fearful  gaze  their  various  course  surveyed. 
High  hung  in  air  the  hoary  goat  reclined, 
His  streaming  beard  the  sport  of  every  wind  ; 
And,  while  the  coot  her  jet-wing  loved  to  lave, 
Rocked  on  the  bosom  of  the  sleepless  wave, 
The  eagle  rushed  from  Skiddaw's  purple  crest, 
A  cloud  still  brooding  o'er  her  giant-nest. 

And  now  the  moon  had  dimmed  with  dewy  ray 
The  few  fine  flushes  of  departing  day. 
O'er  the  wide  water's  deep  serene  she  hung, 
And  her  broad  lights  on  every  mountain  flung ; 
When,  lo  !  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew,9 
And  to  the  surge  consigned  the  little  crew. 


88  PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY. 

All,  all  escaped  —  but  ere  the  lover  bore 

His  faint  and  faded  JULIA  to  the  shore, 

Her  sense  had  fled  !  —  Exhausted  by  the  storm, 

A  fatal  trance  hung  o'er  her  pallid  form; 

Her  closing  eye  a  trembling  lustre  fired ; 

'T  was  life's  last  spark  —  it  fluttered  and  expired  ! 

The  father  strewed  his  white  hairs  in  the  wind, 
Called  on  his  child  —  nor  lingered  long  behind  : 
And  FLORIO  lived  to  see  the  willow  wave, 
With  many  an  evening-whisper,  o'er  their  grave. 
Yes,  FLORIO  lived  —  and,  still  of  each  possessed, 
The  father  cherished,  and  the  maid  caressed  ! 

Forever  would  the  fond  Enthusiast  rove, 
With  JULIA'S  spirit,  through  the  shadowy  grove ; 
Gaze  with  delight  on  every  scene  she  planned, 
Kiss  every  floweret  planted  by  her  hand. 
Ah !  still  he  traced  her  steps  along  the  glade, 
When  hazy  hues  and  glimmering  lights  betrayed 
Half- viewless  forms ;  still  listened  as  the  breeze 
Heaved  its  deep  sobs  among  the  aged  trees ; 
And  at  each  pause  her  melting  accents  caught/ 
In  sweet  delirium  of  romantic  thought ! 
Dear  was  the  grot  that  shunned  the  blaze  of  day ; 
She  gave  its  spars  to  shoot  a  trembling  ray. 
The  spring,  that  bubbled  from  its  inmost  cell, 
Murmured  of  JULIA'S  virtues  as  it  fell; 
And  o'er  the  dripping  moss,  the  fretted  stone, 
In  FLORIO'S  ear  breathed  language  not  its  own. 
Her  charm  around  the  enchantress  MEMORY  threw, 
A  charm  that  soothes  the  mind,  and  sweetens  too  ! 

But  is  her  magic  only  felt  below  ? 
Say,  through  what  brighter  realms  she  bids  it  flow ; 


PLBASUKES   OF   MEMORY.  89 

To  what  pure  teings,  in  a  nobler  sphere,10 
She  yields  delight  but  faintly  imaged  here  : 
All  that  till  now  their  rapt  researches  knew, 
Not  called  in  slow  succession  to  review ; 
But,  as  a  landscape  meets  the  eye  of  day, 
At  once  presented  to  their  glad  survey  ! 

Each  scene  of  bliss  revealed,  since  chaos  fled, 
And  dawning  light  its  dazzling  glories  spread  • 
Each  chain  of  wonders  that  sublimely  glowed, 
Since  first  Creation's  choral  anthem  flowed ; 
Each  ready  flight,  at  Mercy's  call  divine, 
To  distant  worlds  that  undiscovered  shine  ; 
Full  on  her  tablet  flings  its  living  rays, 
And  all,  combined,  with  blest  effulgence  blaze. 

There  thy  bright  train,  immortal  Friendship,  soar ; 
No  more  to  part,  to  mingle  tears  no  more  ! 
And,  as  the  softening  hand  of  Time  endears 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  our  infant-years, 
So  there  the  soul,  released  from  human  strife, 
Smiles  at  the  little  cares  and  ills  of  life ; 
Its  lights  and  shades,  its  sunshine  and  its  showers  • 
As  at  a  dream  that  charmed  her  vacant  hours  ! 

Oft  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead  descend 
To  watch  the  silent  slumbers  of  a  friend ; 
To  hover  round  his  evening  walk  unseen, 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky  green ; 
To  hail  the  spot  where  first  their  friendship  grew, 
And  heaven  and  nature  opened  to  their  view  ! 
Oft  when  he  trims  his  cheerful  hearth,  and  sees 
A  smiling  circle  emulous  to  please  ; 
There  may  these  gentle  guests  delight  to  dwell, 
And  bless  the  scene  they  loved  in  life  so  well ! 
8* 


90  PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY. 

0  thou  !  with  whom  my  heart  was  wont  to  share 
From  Reason's  dawn  each  pleasure  and  each  care ; 
With  whom,  alas  !  I  fondly  hoped  to  know 
The  humble  walks  of  happiness  below ; 
If  thy  blest  nature  now  unites  above 
An  angel's  pity  with  a  brother's  love. 
Still  o'er  my  life  preserve  thy  mild  control, 
Correct  my  views,  and  elevate  my  soul ; 
Grant  me  thy  peace  and  purity  of  mind. 
Devout  yet  cheerful,  active  yet  resigned ; 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  whose  heart  knew  no  disguise, 
Whose  blameless  wishes  never  aimed  to  rise, 
To  meet  the  changes  Time  and  Chance  present 
With  modest  dignity  and  calm  content. 
When  thy  last  breath,  ere  Kature  sunk  to  rest. 
Thy  meek  submission  to  thy  God  expressed ; 
When  thy  last  look,  ere  thought  and  feeling  fled, 
A  mingled  gleam  of  hope  and  triumph  shed ; 
What  to  thy  soul  its  glad  assurance  gave, 
Its  hope  in  death,  its  triumph  o'er  the  grave  ? 
The  sweet  Remembrance  of  unblemished  youth, 
The  still  inspiring  voice  of  Innocence  and  Truth ! 

Hail.  MEMORY,  hail !  in  thy  exhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  unnumbered  treasures  shine  ! 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey, 
And  Place  and  Time  are  subject  to  thy  sway ! 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel  when  most  alone  : 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air.  Hope's  summer- visions  die, 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky : 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 
Lo  !  Fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away  ! 


PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY.  91 

But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 
Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  ? 
These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight, 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light ; 
And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest, 
Where  Virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest ! 


NOTES. 


PART   I. 

(1)  THESE  were  imagined  to  be  the  departed  souls  of  virtuous  men,  who,  as  a  reward  of 
their  good  deeds  in  the  present  life,  were  appointed  after  death  to  the  pleasing  office  of 
superintending  the  concerns  of  their  immediate  descendants.  —  Melmoth. 

(2)  Virgil,  in  one  of  his  Eclogues,  describes  a  romantic  attachment  as  conceived  in  such 
circumstances  ;  and  the  description  is  so  true  to  nature,  that  we  must  surely  be  indebted 
for  it  to  some  early  recollection.  —  "  You  were  little  when  I  first  saw  you.    You  were  with 
your  mother  gathering  fruit  in  our  orchard,  and  I  was  your  guide.     I  was  just  entering 
my  thirteenth  year,  and  just  able  to  reach  the  boughs  from  the  ground." 

So  also  Zappi,  an  Italian  poet  of  the  last  century.  —  "  When  I  used  to  measure  myself 
with  ray  goat  and  my  goat  was  the  tallest,  even  then  I  loved  Clori." 

(3)  I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried,  "  The  friends  of  my  youth,  where  are 
they  ?  "    And  an  echo  answered,  "  Where  are  they  ?  "  —  From  an  Arabic  MS. 

(4)  When  a  traveller,  who  was  surveying  the  ruins  of  Rome,  expressed  a  desire  to  pos 
sess  some  relic  of  its  ancient  grandeur,  Poussin,  who  attended  him,  stooped  down,  and 
gathering  up  a  handful  of  earth  shining  with  small  grains  of  porphyry,  "  Take  this  home," 
said  he,  "for  your  cabinet  ;  and  gay,  boldly,  Questa  e  Roma  Antica." 

(5)  Every  man,  like  Gulliver  in  Lilliput,  is  fastened  to  some  spot  of  earth,  by  the  thou 
sand  small  threads  which  habit  and  association  are  continually  stealing  over  him.   Of  these, 
perhaps,  one  of  the  strongest  is  here  alluded  to. 

When  the  Canadian  Indians  were  once  solicited  to  emigrate,  "  What  !  "'  they  replied, 
"  shall  we  say  to  the  bones  of  our  fathers,  Arise,  and  go  with  us  into  a  foreign  land  ?  " 

(6)  He  wept  ;  but  the  effort  that  he  made  to  conceal  his  tears  concurred  with  them  to  do 
him  honor  :  he  went  to  the  mast-head,  &c.  —  See  Cook's  First  Voyage,  book  i.  chap. 
16. 

Another  very  affecting  instance  of  local  attachment  is  related  of  his  fellow-countryman 
Potaveri,  who  came  to  Europe  with  M.  de  Bougainville.  —  See  Les  Jardins,  chant,  ii. 

(")  Elle  se  leve  sur  son  lict  et  se  met  A  contempler  la  France  encore,  et  tant  qu'elle  peut. 
—  Brant6me. 


accidental  association  may  be  ascribed  some  of  the  noblest  efforts  of  human 
genius.  The  historian  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  first  conceived  his 
design  among  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol  ;  *  and  to  the  tones  of  a  Welsh  harp  are  we  indebted 
for  the  Bard  of  Gray. 

•  "  It  was  on  the  15th  of  October,  1764,  as  I  sat  musing  there,  while  the  hare-footed  friars  were  sing 
ing  verses  in  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  that  the  idea  first  started  to  my  mind."  —  Memoirs  of  my  Life. 


94  NOTES. 


(9)  Who  can  enough  admire  the  affectionate  attachment  of  Plutarch,  who  thus  con 
cludes  his  enumeration  of  the  advantages  of  a  great  city  to  men  of  letters  :  "  As  to  my 
self,  I  live  in  a  little  town  ;  and  I  choose  to  live  there,  lest  it  should  become  still  less."  — 
fit.  Demosth. 

(10)  He  was  suspected  of  murder,  and  at  Venice  suspicion  was  good  evidence.     Neither 
the  interest  of  the  Doge,  his  father,  nor  the  intrepidity  of  conscious  innocence,  which  he 
exhibited  in  the  dungeon  and  on  the  rack,  could  procure  his  acquittal.    He  was  banished 
to  the  Island  of  Candia  for  life. 

But  here  his  resolution  failed  him.  At  such  a  distance  from  home  he  could  not  live  ; 
and,  as  it  was  a  criminal  offence  to  solicit  the  intercession  of  any  foreign  prince,  in  a  fit  of 
despair  he  addressed  a  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  intrusted  it  to  a  wretch  whose 
'perfidy,  he  knew,  would  occasion  his  being  remanded  a  prisoner  to  Venice. 

(11)  Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses  —  whatever  makes  the  past, 
the  distant  or  the  future,  predominate  over  the  present  —  advances  us  in  the  dignity  of 
thinking  beings.     Far  from  me  and  from  my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may 
conduct  us  indifferent  and  unmoved  over  any  ground  which  has  been  dignified  by  wisdom, 
bravery  or  virtue  !     That  man  is  little  to  be  envied  whose  patriotism  would  not  gain  forca 
upon  the  plain  of  Marathon,  or  whose  piety  would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of 
lona.  — Johnson. 

(12)  The  Paraclete,  founded  by  Abelard,  in  Champagne. 

(13)  Alexander,  when  he  crossed  the  Hellespont,  was  in  the  twenty-second  year  of  his 
age  ;  and  with  what  feelings  must  the  Scholar  of  Aristotle  have  approached  the  ground 
described  by  Homer  in  that  poem  which  had  been  his  delight  from  his  childhood,  and 
which  records  the  achievements  of  him  from  whom  he  claimed  his  descent ! 

It  was  his  fancy,  if  we  may  believe  tradition,  to  take  the  tiller  from  Menoetius,  and  be 
himself  the  steersman  during  the  passage.  It  was  his  fancy  also  to  be  the  first  to  laud, 
and  to  land  full-armed.  — Arrian,  i.  11. 

(14)  Vows  and  pilgrimages  are  not  peculiar  to  the  religious  enthusiast.     Silius  Italicus 
performed  annual  ceremonies  on  the  mountain  of  Posilipo  ;  and  it  was  there  that  Boccac 
cio,  quasi  da  un  divino  estro  inspirato,  resolved  to  dedicate  his  life  to  the  Muses. 

(15)  When  Cicero  was  quaestor  in  Sicily,  he  discovered  the  tomb  of  Archimedes  by  its 
mathematical  inscription.  —  Tusc.  Quaest.  v.  23. 

06)  The  influence  of  the  associating  principle  is  finely  exemplified  in  the  faithful 
Penelope,  when,  she  sheds  tears  over  the  bow  of  Ulysses.  —  Od.  xxi.  55. 

(17)  The  celebrated  Ranz  des  Vaches  ;  cet  air  si  ch£ri  des  Suisses  qu'il  fut  defendu  sous 
peine  de  mort  de  la  jouer  dans  leurs  troupes,  parce  qu'il  faisoit  fondre  en  larmes,  deserter 
ou  mourir  ceux  qui  1'entendoient,  tant  il  excitoit  en  eux  1'ardent  desir  de  revoir  leur  pays. 
—  Rousseau. 

The  maladie  de  pays  is  as  old  as  the  human  heart.    Juvenal's  little  cup-bearer 
Suspirat  longo  non  visam  tempore  matrem, 
Et  casulam,  et  notos  tristis  desiderat  hoedos. 
And  the  Argive  in  the  heat  of  battle 

Dulces  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos. 

Nor  is  it  extinguished  by  any  injuries,  however  cruel  they  may  be.    Ludlow,  write  as  he 
would  over  his  door  at  Vevey,*  was  still  anxious  to  return  home  ;  and  how  striking  is  the 

*  Omne  solum  forti  patria  est,  quia  Patris. 


NOTES.  95 


testimony  of  Camillas,  as  it  is  recorded  by  Livy  !  "  Equidem  fatebor  vobis,"  says  he  in 
his  speech  to  the  Roman  people,  "etsi  minus  injuries  vestrae  quam  mese  calamitatis 
meminisse  juvat ;  quurn  abessem,  quotiescunque  patria  in  mentem  veniret,  hsec  omnia 
occurrebant,  colles,  campique,  et  Tiberis,  et  assueta  oculis  regio,  et  hoc  coelum,  sub  quo 
natus  educatusque  essem.  Quse  vos,  Quirites,  nunc  moveant  potius  caritate  sua,  ut  rnane- 
atis  in  sede  vestra,  quam  postea  quum  reliqueritis  ea,  macerent  desiderio."  —  V.  54. 

(18)  This  emperor  constantly  passed  the  summer  in  a  small  villa  near  Reate,  where  he 
was  born,  and  to  which  he  would  never  add  any  embellishment ;  ne  quid  scilicet  ocu- 
lorum  consuetudini  deperiret.  —  Suet,  in  Vit.  Vesp.  cap.  ii. 

A  similar  instance  occurs  in  the  life  of  the  venerable  Pertinax,  as  related  by  J.  Capito- 
linus.  Posteaquam  in  Liguriam  venit,  multis  agris  coemptis,  tabernam  paternam,  ma- 
nente  fo)  md  priore,  infiuitis  sedificiis  circundedit. — Hist.  August,  54. 

And  it  is  said  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  that,  when  he  built  his  magnificent  palace  on  the 
site  of  the  old  family  chateau  at  Richelieu,  he  sacrificed  its  symmetry  to  preserve  the  room 
in  which  he  was  born.  — Mem.  de  Mile,  de  Montpensier,  i.  27. 

An  attachment  of  this  nature  is  generally  the  characteristic  of  a  benevolent  mind  ;  and 
a  long  acquaintance  with  the  world  cannot  always  extinguish  it. 

"  To  a  friend,"  says  John,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  "  I  will  expose  my  weakness  :  I  am 
oftener  missing  a  pretty  gallery  in  the  old  house  I  pulled  down,  than  pleased  with  a  saloon 
which  I  built  in  its  stead,  though  a  thousand  times  better  in  all  respects."  —  See  his  Let 
ter  to  t/ieD.ofSh. 

This  is  the  language  of  the  heart,  and  will  remind  the  reader  of  that  good-humored 
remark  in  one  of  Pope's  letters  :  "  I  should  hardly  care  to  have  an  old  post  pulled  up, 
that  I  remembered  ever  since  I  was  a  child." 

The  author  of  Telemachus  has  illustrated  this  subject,  with  equal  fancy  and  feeling,  in 
the  story  of  Alibee,  Persan. 

(19)  That  amiable  and  accomplished  monarch,  Henry  the  Fourth  of  France,  made  an 
excursion  from  his  camp,  during  the  long  siege  of  Laon,  to  dine  at  a  house  in  the  forest  of 
Folambray  ;  where  he  had  often  been  regaled,  when  a  boy,  with  fruit,  milk  and  new  cheese  ; 
and  in  revisiting  which  he  promised  himself  great  pleasure.  — Mem.  de  Sully. 

(20)  Diocletian  retired  into  his  native  province,  and  there  amused  himself  with  building, 
planting  and  gardening.     His  answer  to  Maximian  is  deservedly  celebrated.     "  If,"  said 
he,  "  I  could  show  him  the  cabbages  which  I  have  planted  with  my  own  hands  at  Salona, 
he  would  no  longer  solicit  me  to  return  to  a  throne." 

(21)  When  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth  had  executed  his  memorable  resolution,  and 
had  set  out  for  the  monastery  of  Just£,  he  stopped  a  few  days  at  Ghent  to  indulge  that 
tender  and  pleasant  melancholy,  which  arises  in  the  mind  of  every  man  in  the  decline  of 
life,  on  visiting  the  place  of  his  birth,  and  the  objects  familiar  to  him  in  his  early  youth. 

(22)  Monjes  solitaries  del  glorioso  padre  San  Geronimo,  says  Sandova. 

In  a  corner  of  the  Convent-garden  there  is  this  inscription :  En  esta  santa  casa  de  S. 
Geronimo  de  Juste  se  retii'6  A  acabar  su  vida  Cirlos  V.  Emperador,  &c.  —  Ponz. 

(23)  The  memory  of  the  horse  forms  the  ground-work  of  a  pleasing  little  romance, 
entitled,  "  Lai  du  Palefroi  vair."  —  See  Fabliaux  du  XII.  Siecle. 

Ariosto  likewise  introduces  it  in  a  passage  full  of  truth  and  nature.  When  Bayardo 
meets  Angelica  in  the  forest, 

.     .     .     .     Va  mansueto  a  la  Donzella, 


Ch'in  Albracca  il  servla  gia  di  sua  mano. 

Orlando  Furiosb,  i.  75. 


96  NOTES. 


(24)  During  the  siege  of  Harlem,  when  that  city  was  reduced  to  the  last  extremity,  and 
on  the  point  of  opening  its  gates  to  a  base  and  barbarous  enemy,  a  design  was  formed  to 
relieve  it ;  and  the  intelligence  was  conveyed  to  the  citizens  by  a  letter  which  was  tied 
under  the  wing  of  a  pigeon.  —  Thuanus,  Iv.  5. 

The  same  messenger  was  employed  at  the  siege  of  Mutina,  as  we  are  informed  by  the 
elder  Pliny.  —  Hist.  Nat.  x.  37. 

(25)  This  little  animal,  from  the  extreme  convexity  of  her  eye,  cannot  see  many  inches 
before  her. 


PART  H. 

(1)  True  glory,  says  one  of  the  ancients,  is  to  be  acquired  by  doing  what  deserves  to  be 
written,  and  writing  what  deserves  to  be  read  ;  and  by  making  the  world  the  happier  and 
the  better  for  our  having  lived  in  it. 

(2)  There  is  a  future  existence  even  in  this  world,—  an  existence  in  the  hearts  and  minds 
of  those  who  shall  live  after  us.* 

It  is  a  state  of  rewards  and  punishments  5  and,  like  that  revealed  to  us  in  the  gospel, 
has  the  happiest  influence  on  our  lives.  The  latter  excites  us  to  gain  the  favor  of  God, 
the  former  to  gain  the  love  and  esteem  of  wise  and  good  men  ;  and  both  lead  to  the  same 
end  ;  for,  in  framing  our  conceptions  of  the  Deity,  we  only  ascribe  to  him  exalted  degrees 
of  wisdom  and  goodness. 

(3)  The  highest  reward  of  virtue  is  virtue  herself,  as  the  severest  punishment  of  vice  is 
vice  herself. 

(4)  The  astronomer  chalking  his  figures  on  the  wall  in  Hogarth's  view  of  Bedlam  is  an 
admirable  exemplification  of  tin's  idea.  — See  the  Rake's  Progress,  plate  8. 

(5)  The  following  stanzas  f  are  said  to  have  been  written  on  a  blank  leaf  of  this  poem. 
They  present  so  affecting  a  reverse  of  the  picture,  that  I  cannot  resist  the  opportunity  of 
introducing  them  here. 

"  Pleasures  of  Memory  !  0  !  supremely  blest, 
And  justly  proud  beyond  a  poet's  praise  ; 
If  the  pure  confines  of  thy  tranquil  breast 
Contain,  indeed,  the  subject  of  thy  lays  ! 
By  me  how  envied  !  —  for  to  me, 
The  herald  still  of  misery, 
Memory  makes  her  influence  known 
By  sighs,  and  tears,  and  grief  alone  : 
I  greet  her  as  the  fiend,  to  whom  belong 
The  vulture's  ravening  beak,  the  raven's  funeral  song. 

"  She  tells  of  time  misspent,  of  comfort  lost, 

Of  fair  occasions  gone  forever  by  ; 
Of  hopes  too  fondly  nursed,  too  rudely  crossed, 
Of  many  a  cause  to  wish,  yet  fear  to  die  ; 

•  De  tous  les  biens  humains  c'est  le  seal  que  la  mort  ne  nous  peut  ravir.  —  Bofsuet. 
t  By  Henry  F.  R.  Soame,  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 


NOTES.  97 


For  what,  except  the  instinctive  fear 

Lest  she  survive,  detains  me  here, 

When  '  all  the  life  of  life '  is  fled  ? 

"What,  but  the  deep  inherent  dread 
Lest  she  beyond  the  grave  resume  her  reign, 
And  realize  the  hell  that  priests  and  beldames  feign  ? " 

(6)  On  the  road  side  between  Penrith  and  Appleby  there  stands  a  small  pillar  with  this 
inscription  : 

"  This  pillar  was  erected  in  the  year  1656,  by  Ann,  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke, 
&c.,  for  a  memorial  of  her  last  parting,  in  this  place,  with  her  good  and  pious  mother, 
Margaret,  Countess  Dowager  of  Cumberland,  on  the  2d  of  April,  1616  ;  in  memory 
whereof  she  hath  left  an  annuity  of  4Z.  to  be  distributed  to  the  poor  of  the  parish  of 
Brougham,  every  second  day  of  April  forever,  upon  the  stone  table  placed  hard  by. 
Laus  Deo !  " 

The  Eden  is  the  principal  river  of  Cumberland,  and  rises  hi  the.  wildest  part  of  West 
moreland. 

(7)  "  I  would  not  exchange  my  dead  son,"  said  he,  "  for  any  living  son  in  Christendom." 
—  Hume. 

The  same  sentiment  is  inscribed  on  an  urn  at  the  Leasowes.  "  Heu,  quanto  minus  est 
cum  reliquis  versari,  quam  tui  meminisse  !  " 

(8)  A  small  island  covered  with  trees,  among  which  were  formerly  the  rums  of  a  reli 
gious  house. 

(9)  In  a  mountain-lake  the  agitations  are  often  violent  and  momentary.    The  winds  blow 
in  gusts  and  eddies;  and  the  water  no  sooner  swells  than  it  subsides.  —  See  Bourn's 
Hist,  of  Westmoreland. 

(10)  The  several  degrees  of  angels  may  probably  have  larger  views,  and  some  of  them 
be  endowed  with  capacities  able  to  retain  together,  and  constantly  set  before  them,  as  in 
one  picture,  all  their  past  knowledge  at  once.  —  Locke. 

9 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND, 

1798. 


Villula,        .    .     .    et  pauper  agelle, 

Me  tibi,  et  hos  uni  mecum,  quos  semper  amavi, 

Commendo, 


PREFACE. 


EVERY  reader  turns  with  pleasure  to  those  passages  of  Horace,  and  Pope, 
and  Boilcau,  which  describe  how  they  lived  and  where  they  dwelt ;  and 
which,  being  interspersed  among  their  satirical  writings,  derive  a  secret  and 
irresistible  grace  from  the  contrast,  and  are  admirable  examples  of  what  in 
painting  is  termed  repose. 

We  have  admittance  to  Horace  at  all  hours.  We  enjoy  the  company  and 
conversation  at  his  table  ;  and  his  suppers,  like  Plato's,  "  non  soluin  in 
praosentia,  sed  etiam  postero  die  jucundas  sunt."  But,  when  we  look  round 
as  we  sit  there,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  Sabine  farm,  and  not  in  a  Roman 
villa.  His  windows  have  every  charm  of  prospect  ;  but  his  furniture  might 
have  descended  from  Cincinnatus  ;  and  gems,  and  pictures,  and  old  marbles, 
are  mentioned  by  him  more  than  once  with  a  seeming  indiiTerence. 

His  English  imitator  thought  and  felt,  perhaps,  more  correctly  on  the 
subject  ;  and  embellished  his  garden  and  grotto  with  great  industry  and 
success.  But  to  these  alone  he  solicits  our  notice.  On  the  ornaments  of 
his  house  he  is  silent  ;  and  he  appears  to  have  reserved  all  the  minuter 
touches  of  his  pencil  for  the  library,  the  cha.pel,  and  the  banqueting-room 
of  Timon.  "  Le  savoir  de  notre  siecle,"  says  Rousseau,  "  tend  beaucoup 
plus  a  detruire  qu'a  edifier.  On  censure  d'un  ton  de  maitre  ;  pour  pro 
poser,  il  en  faut  prendro  un  autre." 

It  is  the  design  of  this  Epistle  to  illustrate  the  virtue  of  True  Taste  ;  and 
to  show  how  little  she  requires  to  secure,  not  only  the  comforts,  but  even 
the  elegances  of  life.  True  Taste  is  an  excellent  economist.  She  confines 
her  choice  to  few  objects,  and  delights  in  producing  great  effects  by  small 
means  :  while  False  Taste  is  forever  sighing  after  the  new  and  the  rare  ; 
and  reminds  us,  in  her  works,  of  the  Scholar  of  Apelles,  who,  not  being 
able  to  paint  his  Helen  beautiful,  determined  to  make  her  fine. 


EPISTLE   TO   A   FRIEND. 


An  Invitation  —  The  Approach  to  a  Villa  described  —  Its  Situation  —  Its 
few  Apartments — Furnished  with  Casts  from  the  Antique,  &c. —  The 
Dining-room  —  The  Library  — A  Cold  Bath  —  A  Winter  Walk  — A 
Summer  Walk  —  The  Invitation  renewed  —  Conclusion. 

WHEX,  with  a  REAUMUR'S  skill,  thy  curious  mind 

Has  classed  the  insect-tribes  of  human  kind. 

Each  with  its  busy  hum.  or  gilded  wing, 

Its  subtle  web- work,  or  its  venomed  sting ; 

Let  me,  to  claim  a  few  unvalued  hours, 

Point  out  the  green  lane  rough  with  fern  and  flowers ; 

The  sheltered  gate  that  opens  to  my  field, 

And  the  white  front  through  mingling  elms  revealed. 

In  vain,  alas  !  a  village  friend  invites 
To  simple  comforts  and  domestic  rites, 
When  the  gay  months  of  Carnival  resume 
Their  annual  round  of  glitter  and  perfume ; 
When  London  hails  thee  to  its  splendid  mart, 
Its  hives  of  sweets  and  cabinets  of  art ; 
And,  lo !  majestic  as  thy  manly  song, 
Flows  the  full  tide  of  human  life  along. 

Still  must  my  partial  pencil  love  to  dwell 
On  the  home-prospects  of  my  hermit-cell ; 
The  mossy  pales  that  skirt  the  orchard-green, 
Here  hid  by  shrub-wood,  there  by  glimpses  seen  ; 

b* 


102  EPISTLE   TO    A    FRIEND. 

And  the  brown  pathway,  that,  with  careless  flow, 
Sinks,  and  is  lost  among  the  trees  below. 
Still  must  it  trace  (the  flattering  tints  forgive) 
Each  fleeting  charm  that  bids  the  landscape  live. 
Oft  o'er  the  mead,  at  pleasing  distance,  pass,1 
Browsing  the  hedge  by  fits,  the  panniered  ass  ; 
The  idling  shepherd-boy,  with  rude  delight, 
Whistling  his  dog  to  mark  the  pebble's  flight ; 
And  in  her  kerchief  blue  the  cottage- maid, 
With  brimming  pitcher  from  the  shadowy  glade. 
Far  to  the  south  a  mountain-vale  retires, 
Rich  in  its  groves,  and  glens,  and  village  spires ; 
Its  upland  lawns,  and  cliifs  with  foliage  hung, 
Its  wizard-stream,  nor  nameless  nor  unsung : 
And  through  the  various  year,  the  various  day,2 
What  scenes  of  glory  burst,  and  melt  away  ! 

When  April-verdure  springs  in  Grosvenor-square, 
And  the  furred  Beauty  comes  to  winter  there, 
She  bids  old  Nature  mar  the  plan  no  more ; 
Yet  still  the  seasons  circle  as  before. 
Ah  !  still  as  soon  the  young  Aurora  plays, 
Though  moons  and  flambeaux  trail  their  broadest  blaze  ; 
As  soon  the  sky-lark  pours  his  matin-song, 
Though  Evening  lingers  at  the  Masque  so  long. 

There  let  her  strike  with  momentary  ray, 
As  tapers  shine  their  little  lives  away ; 
There  let  her  practise  from  herself  to  steal, 
And  look  the  happiness  she  does  not  feel ; 
The  ready  smile  and  bidden  blush  employ 
At  Faro-routs  that  dazzle  to  destroy ; 
Fan  with  affected  caso  the  essenced  air, 
And  lisp  of  fashions  with  unmeaning  stare. 


EPISTLE   TO    A   FRIEND.  103 

Be  thine  to  meditate  an  humbler  flight, 
When  morning  fills  the  fields  with  rosy  light ; 
Be  thine  to  blend,  nor  thine  a  vulgar  aim, 
Repose  with  dignity,  with  Quiet  fame. 

Here  no  state-chambers  in  long  line  unfold, 
Bright  with  broad  mirrors,  rough  with  fretted  gold ; 
Yet  modest  ornament,  with  use  combined, 
Attracts  the  eye  to  exercise  the  mind. 
Small  change  of  scene,  small  space,  his  home  requires,3 
Who  leads  a  life  of  satisfied  desires. 

What  though  no  marble  breathes,  no  canvas  glows. 
From  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows  ! 4 
Be  mine  to  bless  the  more  mechanic  skill, 
That  stamps,  renews,  and  multiplies  at  will ; 
And  cheaply  circulates,  through  distant  climes, 
The  fairest  relics  of  the  purest  times. 
Here  from  the  mould  to  conscious  being  start 
Those  finer  forms,  the  miracles  of  art ; 
Here  chosen  gems,  imprest  on  sulphur,  shine, 
That  slept  for  ages  in  a  second  mine ; 
And  here  the  faithful  graver  dares  to  trace 
A  MICHAEL'S  grandeur,  and  a  RAPHAEL'S  grace ! 
Thy  gallery,  Florence,  gilds  my  humble  walls ; 
And  my  low  roof  the  Vatican  recalls  ! 

Soon  as  the  morning-dream  my  pillow  flies, 
To  waking  sense  what  brighter  visions  rise  ! 
0  mark  !  again  the  coursers  of  the  Sun, 
At  GUIDO'S  call,  their  round  of  glory  run  ! 5 
Again  the  rosy  hours  resume  their  flight, 
Obscured  and  lost  in  floods  of  golden  light ! 

But  could  thine  erring  friend  so  long  forget 
(Sweet  source  of  pensive  joy  and  fond  regret) 


104  EPISTLE    TO   A    FRIEND. 

That  here  its  warmest  hues  the  pencil  flings, 
Lo  !  here  the  lost  restores,  the  absent  brings ; 
And  still  the  few  best  loved  and  most  revered G 
Rise  round  the  board  their  social  smile  endeared  ? 7 

Selected  shelves  shall  claim  thy  studious  hours  : 
There  shall  thy  ranging  mind  be  fed  on  flowers  ! 8 
There,  while  the  shaded  lamp's  mild  lustre  streams, 
Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspiring  dreams  ;9 
And,  when  a  sage's  bust  arrests  thee  there,10 
Pause,  and  his  features  with  his  thoughts  compare. 
—  Ah  !  most  that  Art  my  grateful  rapture  calls, 
Which  breathes  a  soul  into  the  silent  walls  ; n 
Which  gathers  round  the  wise  of  every  tongue,12 
All  on  whose  words  departed  nations  hung ; 
Still  prompt  to  charm  with  many  a  converse  sweet ; 
Guides  in  the  world,  companions  in  retreat  ! 

Though  my  thatched  bath  no  rich  Mosaic  knows, 
A  limpid  spring  with  unfelt  current  flows. 
Emblem  of  Life  !  which,  still  as  we  survey, 
Seems  motionless,  yet  ever  glides  away ! 
The  shadowy  walls  record,  with  Attic  art, 
The  strength  and  beauty  which  its  waves  impart. 
Here  THETIS,  bending,  with  a  mother's  fears 
Dips  her  dear  boy,  whose  pride  restrains  his  tears. 
There  VENUS,  rising,  shrinks  with  sweet  surprise, 
As  her  fair  self  reflected  seems  to  rise  ! 1S 

Far  from  the  joyless  glare,  the  maddening  strife, 
And  all  the  dull  impertinence  of  life, 
These  eyelids  open  to  the  rising  ray,14 
And  close,  when  Nature  bids,  at  close  of  day. 
Here,  at  the  dawn,  the  kindling  landscape  glows ; 
There  noon-day  levees  call  from  faint  repose. 


EPISTLE   TO    A   FRIEND.  1C5 

Here  the  flushed  wave  flings  back  the  parting  light ; 

There  glimmering  lamps  anticipate  the  night. 

When  from  his  classic  dreams  the  student  steals,15 

Amid  the  buzz  of  crowds,  the  whirl  of  wheels. 

To  muse  unnoticed — while  around  him  press 

The  meteor-forms  of  equipage  and  dress ; 

Alone,  in  wonder  lost,  he  seems  to  stand 

A  very  stranger  in  his  native  land  ! 

And  (though  perchance  of  current  coin  possest, 

And  modern  phrase  by  living  lips  exprest) 

Like  those  blest  Youths,  forgive  the  fabling  page,10 

Whose  blameless  lives  deceived  a  twilight  age, 

Spent  in  sweet  slumbers  ;  till  the  miner's  spade 

Unclosed  the  cavern,  and  the  morning  played. 

Ah  !  what  their  strange  surprise,  their  wild  delight ! 

New  ails  of  life,  new  manners,  meet  their  sight  ! 

In  a  new  world  they  wake,  as  from  the  dead ; 

Yet  doubt  the  trance  dissolved,  the  vision  fled  ! 

0,  come,  and,  rich  in  intellectual  wealth, 
Blend  thought  with  exercise,  with  knowledge  health ; 17 
Long,  in  this  sheltered  scene  of  lettered  talk, 
With  sober  step  repeat  the  pensive  walk ; 
Nor  scorn,  when  graver  triflings  fail  to  please, 
The  cheap  amusements  of  a  mind  at  ease  ; 
Here  every  care  in  sweet  oblivion  cast, 
And  many  an  idle  hour  —  not  idly  passed. 

No  tuneful  echoes,  ambushed  at  my  gate, 
Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great.18 
Vain  of  its  various  page,  no  Album  breathes 
The  sigh  that  Friendship  or  the  Muse  bequeaths. 
Yet  some  good  Genii  o'er  my  hearth  preside, 
Oft  the  far  friend,  with  secret  spell3  to  guide ; 


106  *    EPISTLE   TO   A   FRIEND. 

And  there  I  trace,  when  the  gray  evening  lowers, 
A  silent  chronicle  of  happier  hours  ! 

When  Christmas  revels  in  a  world  of  snow, 
And  bids  her  berries  blush,  her  carols  flow ; 
His  spangling  shower  when  Frost  the  wizard  flings  ; 
Or,  borne  in  ether  blue,  on  viewless  wings, 
O'er  the  white  pane  his  silvery  foliage  weaves, 
And  gems  with  icicles  the  sheltering  eaves ; 

-  Thy  muffled  friend  his  nectarine-wall  pursues, 
What  time  the  sun  the  yellow  crocus  woos, 
Screened  from  the  arrowy  North ;   and  duly  hies 
To  meet  the  morning-rumor  as  it  flies ; 
To  range  the  murmuring  market-place,  and  view 
The  motley  groups  that  faithful  TENIERS  drew.19 

When  Spring  bursts  forth  in  blossoms  through  the  vale. 
And  her  wild  music  triumphs  on  the  gale, 
Oft  with  my  book  I  muse  from  stile  to  stile  ;  -° 
Oft  in  my  porch  the  listless  noon  beguile, 
Framing  loose  numbers,  till  declining  day 
Through  the  green  trellis  shoots  a  crimson  ray ; 
Till  the  west  wind  leads  on  the  twilight  hours, 
And  shakes  the  fragrant  bells  of  closing  flowers. 

Nor  boast,  0  Choisy  !  seat  of  soft  delight, 
The  secret  charm  of  thy  voluptuous  night. 
Vain  is  the  blaze  of  wealth,  the  pomp  of  power  ! 
Lo  !  here,  attendant  on  the  shadowy  hour, 
Thy  closet-supper,  served  by  hands  unseen, 
Sheds,  like  an  evening-star,  its  ray  serene,21 
To  hail  our  coming.     Not  a  step  profane 
Dares,  with  rude  sound,  the  cheerful  rite  restrain ; 
And,  while  the  frugal  banquet  glows  revealed, 
Pure  and  unbought22-  —the  natives  of  my  field  ; 


EPISTLE   TO    A    FRIEND.  107 

While  blushing  fruits  through  scattered  leaves  invite, 
Still  clad  in  bloom,  and  veiled  in  azure  light ;  — 
With  wine,  as  rich  in  years  as  HORACE  sings, 
With  water,  clear  as  his  own  fountain  flings, 
The  shifting  side-board  plays  its  humbler  part, 
Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  Loriot's  art.-3 

Thus,  in  this  calm  recess,  so  richly  fraught 
With  mental  light,  and  luxury  of  thought, 
My  life  steals  on  ;   (0,  could  it  blend  with  thine  !) 
Careless  my  course,  yet  not  without  design. 
So  through  the  vales  of  Loire  the  bee-hives  glide,24 
The  light  raft  dropping  with  the  silent  tide  ; 
So,  till  the  laughing  scenes  are  lost  in  night, 
The  busy  people  wing  their  various  flight, 
Culling  unnumbered  sweets  from  nameless  flowers, 
That  scent  the  vineyard  in  its  purple  hours. 

Rise,  ere  the  watch-relieving  clarions  play, 
Caught  through  St.  James's  groves  at  blush  of  day ;  a3 
Ere  its  full  voice  the  choral  anthem  flings 
Through  trophied  tombs  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 
Haste  to  the  tranquil  shade  of  learned  ease,2*3 
Though  skilled  alike  to  dazzle  and  to  please ; 
Though  each  gay  scene  be  searched  with  anxious  eye, 
Nor  thy  shut  door  be  passed  without  a  sigh. 

If,  when  this  roof  shall  know  thy  friend  no  more, 
Some,  formed  like  thee,  should  once,  like  thee,  explore ; 
Invoke  the  lares  of  his  loved  retreat, 
And  his  lone  walks  imprint  with  pilgrim-feet ; 
Then  be  it  said  (as,  vain  of  better  days, 
Some  gray  domestic  prompts  the  partial  praise) , 
"  Unknown  he  lived,  unenvied,  not  unblest ;/ 
Reason  his  guide,  and  Happiness  his  guest. 


108  EPISTLE   TO    A   FRIEND. 

In  the  clear  mirror  of  his  moral  page 
We  trace  the  manners  of  a  purer  age. 
His  soul,  with  thirst  of  genuine  glory  fraught, 
Scorned  the  false  lustre  of  licentious  thought. 
—  One  fair  asylum  from  the  world  he  knew, 
One  chosen  seat,  that  charms  with  various  view  ! 
Who  boasts  of  more  (believe  the  serious  strain) 
Sighs  for  a  home,  and  sighs,  alas  !  in  vain. 
Through  each  he  roves,  the  tenant  of  a  day, 
And,  with  the  swallow,  wings  the  year  away !  "  ^ 


NOTES. 


(1)  COSMO  of  Medicis  took  most  pleasure  in  his  Apenuine  villa,  because  all  that  he  com 
manded  from  its  windows  was  exclusively  his  own.     How  unlike  the  wise  Athenian,  who, 
when  he  had  a  farm  to  sell,  directed  the  crier  to  proclaim,  as  its  best  recommendation,  that 
it  had  a  good  neighborhood  \-Plut.  in  Vit.  Themist. 

(2)  Well  situated  is  the  house,  "  longos  quse  prospicit  agros."     Distant  views  contain 
the  greatest  variety,  both  in  themselves  and  in  their  accidental  variations. 

(3)  Many  a  great  man,  in  passing  through  the  apartments  of  his  palace,  has  made  the 
melancholy  reflection  of  the  venerable  Cosmo :  "  Questa  e  troppo  gran  casa  &  si  poca 
famiglia."  —  Mach.  1st  Fior.  lib.  vii. 

"  Parva,  sed  apta  mihi,"  was  Ariosto's  inscription  over  his  door  in  Ferrara  ;  and  who 
can  wish  to  say  more  ?  "  I  confess,"  says  Cowley,  "  I  love  littleness  almost  in  all  things. 
A  little  convenient  estate,  a  little  cheerful  house,  a  little  company,  and  a  very  little  feast." 
—  Essay  vi. 

When  Socrates  was  asked  why  he  had  built  for  himself  so  small  a  house,  "  Small  as  it 
is,"  he  replied,  "I  wish  I  could  fill  it  with  friends." — Pticedrus,  iii.  9. 

These  indeed  are  all  that  a  wise  man  can  desire  to  assemble  ;  "  for  a  crowd  is  not 
company,  and  faces  are  but  a  gallery  of  pictures,  and  talk  but  a  tinkling  cymbal,  where 
there  is  no  love." 

(4)  By  these  means,  when  all  nature  wears  a  lowering  countenance,  I  withdraw  myself 
Into  the  visionary  worlds  of  art  5  where  I  meet  with  shining  landscapes,  gilded  triumphs, 
beautiful  faces,  and  all  those  other  objects  that  fill  the  mind  with  gay  ideas.  —  Addison. 

It  is  remarkable  that  Antony,  in  his  adversity,  passed  some  time  in  a  small  but  splendid 
retreat,  which  he  called  his  Timonium,  and  from  which  might  originate  the  idea  of  the 
Parisian  boudoir,  that  favorite  apartment,  ou  Von  se  retire  pour  Stre  seul,mais  ov. 
Von  ne  boude  point.  —  Strabo,  1.  xvii.  Pint,  in  Vit.  Anton. 

(5)  Alluding  to  his  celebrated  fresco  in  the  Rospigliosi  Palace,  at  Rome. 

(C)  The  dining-room  is  dedicated  to  Conviviality  ;  or,  as  Cicero  somewhere  expresses  it, 
"  Communitati  vita?  atque  victus."  There  we  wish  most  for  the  society  of  our  friends  5 
and,  perhaps,  in  their  absence,  most  require  then.1  portraits. 

The  moral  advantages  of  this  furniture  may  be  illustrated  by  the  story  of  an  Athenian 
courtesan,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  riotous  banquet  with  her  lovers,  accidentally  cast  her 
eye  on  the  portrait  of  a  philosopher,  that  hung  opposite  to  her  seat  5  the  happy  charac 
ter  of  wisdom  and  virtue  struck  her  with  so  lively  an  image  of  her  own  unworthiness,  that 
she  instantly  left  the  room,  and,  retiring  home,  became  ever  afterwards  an  example  of 
temperance,  as  she  had  been  before  of  debauchery. 

10 


110  NOTES. 


(7)  "  A  long  table  and  a  square  table,"  says  Bacon,  "  seem  things  of  form,  but  are 
things  of  substance  ;  for  at  a  long  table  a  few  at  the  upper  end,  in  effect,  sway  all  the 
business,"  Perhaps  Arthur  was  right  when  he  instituted  the  order  of  the  round  table. 
In  the  town-house  of  Aix-la-Chapelle  is  still  to  be  seen  the  round  table  which  may  almost 
literally  be  said  to  have  given  peace  to  Europe  in  1748.  Nor  is  it  only  at  a  congress  of 
plenipotentiaries  that  place  gives  precedence. 

(8)  apis  Matinse 

More  modoque 
Grata  carpentis  thyma    .     .     .  —  Hor. 

(9)  Before  I  begin  to  write,  says  Bossuet,  I.  always  read  a  little  of  Homer  ;  for  I  love  to 
light  my  lamp  at  the  sun. 

The  reader  will  here  remember  that  passage  of  Horace,  Nunc  veterum  libris,  nunc 
somno,  <^c.,  which  was  inscribed  by  Lord  Chesterfield  on  the  frieze  of  his  library. 

(10)  Siquidem  non  solum  ex  auro  argentove,  aut  certe  ex  sere  in  bibliothecis  dicantur 
illi,  quorum  immortales  animas  in  iisdem  locis  ibi  loquuntur :  quinimo  etiarn  quae  non 
sunt,  finguntur,  pariuntque  desideria  non  traditi  vultus,  sicut  in  Homero  evenit.     Quo 
rnajus  (ut  equidem  arbitror)  nullum  est  felicitatis  specimen,  quam  semper  omnes  scire 
cupere,  qualis  fuerit  aliquis.  — Plin.  Nat.  Hist. 

Cicero,  in  the  dialogue  entitled  Brutus,  represents  Brutus  and  Atticus  as  sitting  down 
with  him  in  his  garden  at  Rome  by  the  statue  of  Plato  ;  and  with  what  delight  does  he 
speak  of  a  little  seat  under  Aristotle  in  the  library  of  Atticus  !  "  Literis  sustentor  et  re- 
creor  ;  maloque  in  ilia  tua  sedecula,  quam  habes  sub  imagine  Aristotelis,  sedere,  quam  in 
istorum  sella  curuli !  "  —  Ep.  ad  Alt.  iv.  10. 

Nor  should  we  forget  that  Dryden  drew  inspiration  from  the  "  majestic  face  "  of  Shak- 
speare  ;  and  that  a  portrait  of  Newton  was  the  only  ornament  of  the  closet  of  Buffon.  — 
Ep.  to  Kneller.     Voyage  a  Montbart. 
In  the  chamber  of  a  man  of  genius  we 

Write  all  down : 
Such  and  such  pictures  ;  —  there  the  window  5 

the  arras,  figures, 

Why,  such  and  such. 

(11)  Postea  ver6  quam  Tyrannio  mihi  libros  disposuit,  mens  addita  videtur  meis  aedibus. 
—  Cic. 

(12)  Quis  tantis  non  gaudeat  et  glorietur  hospitibus,  exclaims  Petrarch.  —  Spectare,  etsi 
nihil  aliud,  certe  juvat.  —  Homerus  apud  me  mutus,  imd  ver6  ego  apud  ilium  surdus  sum. 
Gaudeo  tamen  vel  aspuctu  solo,  et  saspe  ilium  amplexus  ac  suspirans  dico  :  0  magne  vir, 
&LC.  —  Epist.  Far.  lib.  20. 

(13)  After  this  line,  in  a  former  edition, 

But  hence  away  !  yon  rocky  cave  beware  ! 

A  sullen  captive  broods  in  silence  there  ! 

There,  though  the  dog-star  flame,  condemned  to  dwell 

In  the  dark  centre  of  its  inmost  cell, 

Wild  Winter  ministers  his  dread  control 

To  cool  and  crystallize  the  nectared  bowl. 

His  faded  form  an  awful  grace  retains  ; 

Stern,  though  subdued,  majestic,  though  in  chains  ! 

(14)  Your  bed-chamber,  and  also  your  library,  says  Vitruvius,  should  have  an  eastern 
aspect;    usus  enim  matutinum  postulat  lumen.    Not  so  the  picture-gallery,    which 


NOTES.  Ill 


requires  a  north  light,  uti  colores  in  ope,  propter  constantiam  lumints,  immutata  per- 
maneant  qualitate.    This  disposition  accords  with  his  plan  of  a  Grecian  house. 

(15)  Ingenium,  sihi  quod  vacuas  desumsit  Athenas. 
Et  studiis  annos  septem  dedit,  insenuitque 
Libris  et  curis,  statua  taciturnius  exit 
Plerumque     .     .     .     .  —  Hor. 

(16)  See  the  Legend  of  the  Seven  Sleepers.  —  Gibbon,  c.  33. 

(17)  Milton  "was  up  and  stirring,  ere  the  sound  of  any  bell  awaked  men  to  labor  or  to 
devotion  ; "  and  it  is  related  of  two  students  in  a  suburb  of  Paris,  who  were  opposite 
neighbors,  and  were  called  the  morning-star  and  the  evening-star,  —  the  former  appear 
ing  just  as  the  latter  withdrew,  —  that  the  morning  star  continued  to  shine  on,  when  the 
evening  star  was  gone  out  forever. 

(18)  Mr.  Pope  delights  in  enumerating  his  illustrious  guests.     Nor  is  this  an  exclusive 
privilege  of  the  poet.    The  Medici  Palace  at  Florence  exhibits  a  long  and  imposing  cata 
logue.     "  Semper  hi  parietes  columnseque  eruditis  vocibus  resonuerunt." 

(19)  Fallacem  circum,  vespertinumque  pererro 
Saepe  forum.  —  Hor. 

(20)  Tant6t,  un  livre  en  main,  errant  dans  les  pr^ries    .     .  —  Boileau. 

(21)  At  a  Roman  supper  statues  were  sometimes  employed  to  hold  the  lamps. 

— aurea  sunt  juvenum  simulacra  per  aedes. 
Lampadas  igniferas  manibus  retinentia  dextris. 

Lucr.  ii.  24. 
A  fashion  as  old  as  Homer  !  —  Odyss.  vii.  100. 

On  the  proper  degree  and  distribution  of  light  we  may  consult  a  great  master  of  effect. 
II  lume  grande,  ed  alto,  e  non  troppo  potente,  sard  quello,  che  rendera  le  particole  de' 
corpi  molto  grate.  —  Tratt.  della  Pittura  di  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  c.  xli. 

Hence  every  artist  requires  a  broad  and  high  light.  Michael  Angelo  used  to  work  with 
a  candle  fixed  in  his  hat.  —  Condivi.  Vita  di  Michelagnolo.  Hence  also,  in  a  banquet- 
scene,  the  most  picturesque  of  all  poets  has  thrown  his  light  from  the  ceiling.  —  JEn. 
i.  726. 

And  hence  the  "  starry  lamps"  of  Milton,  that 

.     .     .     .    from  the  arched  roof 
Pendent  by  subtle  magic,     .... 

yielded  light 

As  from  a  sky. 

(22)  Dapes  inemtas,        —  Hor. 

(23)  At  the  petits  soup6s  of  Choisy  were  first  introduced  those  admirable  pieces  of 
mechanism,  afterwards  carried  to  perfection  by  Loriot,  the  Confidente  and  the  Servante  ; 
a  table  and  a  side-board,  which  descended,  and  rose  again  covered  with  viands  and  wines. 
And  thus  the  most  luxurious  court  in  Europe,  after  all  its  boasted  refinements,  was  glad 
to  return  at  last,  by  this  singular  contrivance,  to  the  quiet  and  privacy  of  humble  life.  — 
Vie  privte  de.  Louis  XV.  ii.  43. 

Between  this  and  the.  next  line  were  these  lines,  since  omitted  : 

Hail,  sweet  Society  !  in  crowds  unknown, 

Though  the  vain  world  would  claim  thee  for  its  own. 


112 


NOTES. 


Still  where  thy  small  and  cheerful  converse  flows, 
Be  mine  to  enter,  ere  u^  circle  close. 
When  in  retreat  Fox  lays  his  thunder  by, 
And  wit  and  taste  their  mingled  charms  supply  ; 
When  SIDDONS,  born  to  melt  and  freeze  the  heart, 
Performs  at  home  her  more  endearing  part ; 
When  he,  who  best  interprets  to  mankind 
The  winged  messengers  from  mind  to  mind, 
Leans  on  his  spade,  and,  playful  as  profound, 
His  genius  sheds  its  evening  sunshine  round, 
Be  mine  to  listen  ;  pleased  yet  not  elate, 
Ever  too  modest  or  too  proud  to  rate 
Myself  by  my  companions. 
These  were  written  in  1796. 

(24)  An  allusion  to  the  floating  bee-house,  which  is  seen  in  some  parts  of  France  and 
Piedmont. 

(25)  After  this  line,  in  the  MS. 

Groves  that  Belinda's  star  illumines  still, 
And  ancient  courts  and  faded  splendors  fill. 

See  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  Canto  V. 

(26)  Innocuas  amo  delicias  doctamqu£  quietem. 

(27)  it  was  the  boast  of  Lucullus  that  he  changed  his  climate  with  the  birds  of  passage. 
How  often  must  he  have  felt  the  truth  here  inculcated,  that  the  master  of  many  houses 

has  no  home  ! 


THE 


VOYAGE   OF   COLUMBUS 

1812. 


Chi  se'  tu,  che  vieni  —  ? 
Da  me  stesso  non  vegno. 

DANTE. 


I  have  seen  the  day 

That  I  have  worn  a  visor,  and  could  tell 
A  tale  —  SHAKSP. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  Poem  (or,  to  speak  more  properly,  what  remains  of  it  *) 
has  here  and  there  a  lyrical  turn  of  thought  and  expression.  It  is  sudden 
in  its  transitions,  and  full  of  historical  allusions  ;  leaving  much  to  be 
imagined  by  the  reader. 

The  subject  is  a  voyage  the  most  memorable  in  the  annals  of  mankind. 
Columbus  was  a  person  of  extraordinary  virtue  and  piety,  acting,  as  he  con 
ceived,  under  the  sense  of  a  divine  impulse  ;  and  his  achievement  the  dis 
covery  of  a  New  World,  the  inhabitants  of  which  were  shut  out  from  the 
light  of  revelation,  and  given  up,  as  they  believed,  to  the  dominion  of 
malignant  spirits. 

Many  of  the  incidents  will  now  be  thought  extravagant  ;  yet  they  were 
once  perhaps  received  with  something  more  than  indulgence.  It  was  an 
age  of  miracles  ;  and  who  can  say  that  among  the  venerable  legends  in  the 
library  of  the  Escurial,  or  the  more  authentic  records  which  fill  the  great 
chamber  in  the  Archivo  of  Seville,  and  which  relate  entirely  to  the  deep 
tragedy  of  America,  there  are  no  volumes  that  mention  the  marvellous 
things  here  described  1  Indeed,  the  story,  as  already  told  throughout 
Europe,  admits  of  no  heightening.  Such  was  the  religious  enthusiasm  of  the 
early  writers,  that  the  author  had  only  to  transfuse  it  into  his  verse  ;  and 
he  appears  to  have  done  little  more,  though  some  of  the  circumstances, 
which  he  alludes  to  as  well  known,  have  long  ceased  to  be  so.  By  using 
the  language  of  that  day,  he  has  called  up  Columbus  "  in  his  habit  as  he 
lived  ;"  and  the  authorities,  such  as  exist,  are  carefully  given  by  the 
translator. 

*  The  original  in  the  Castilian  language,  according  to  the  Inscription  that  follows,  was 
found  among  other  MSS.  in  an  old  religious  house  near  Palos,  situated  on  an  island  formed 
by  the  river  Tinto,  and  dedicated  to  our  Lady  of  La  Rdbida.  The  writer  describes  himself 
as  having  sailed  with  Columbus  •,  but  his  style  and  manner  are  evidently  of  an  after-time. 


INSCRIBED   ON  THE   ORIGINAL   MANUSCRIPT. 

UNCLASP  me,  Stranger ;  and  unfold, 
With  trembling  care,  my  leaves  of  gold. 
Rich  in  Gothic  portraiture  — 
If  yet,  alas  !   a  leaf  endure. 

In  RABID  A' s  monastic  fane 
I  cannot  ask,  and  ask  in  vain. 
The  language  of  CASTILE  I  speak ; 
Mid  many  an  Arab,  many  a  Greek, 
Old  in  the  days  of  CIIARLEMAIN  ; 
When  minstrel-music  wandered  round, 
And  Science,  waking,  blessed  the  sound. 

No  earthly  thought  has  here  a  place, 
The  cowl  let  down  on  every  face  ; 
Yet  here,  in  consecrated  dust, 
Here  would  I  sleep,  if  sleep  I  must. 
From  GENOA  when  COLUMBUS  came 
(At  once  her  glory  and  her  shame), 
'T  was  here  he  caught  the  holy  flame. 
'T  was  here  the  generous  vow  he  made  ; 
His  banners  on  the  altar  laid. 

Here,  tempest- worn  and  desolate,* 
A  Pilot,  journeying  through  the  wild, 

*  We  have  an  interesting  account  of  his  first  appearance  in  Spain,  that 
country  which  was  so  soon  to.  be  the  theatre  of  his  glory.     According  to 


116  COLUMBUS. 

Stopt  to  solicit  at  the  gate 

A. pittance  for  his  child. 

;T  was  here,  unknowing  and  unknown, 

He  stood  upon  the  threshold-stone. 

But  hope  was  his  —  a  faith  sublime, 

That  triumphs  over  place  and  time  ; 

And  here,  his  mighty  labor  done, 

And  his  course  of  glory  run, 

A  while  as  more  than  man  he  stood, 

So  large  the  debt  of  gratitude  ! 

One  hallowed  morn,  methought,  I  felt 
As  if  a  soul  within  me  dwelt  ! 
But  who  arose  and  gave  to  me 
The  sacred  trust  I  keep  for  thee, 
And  in  his  cell  at  even-tide 
Knelt  before  the  cross  and  died  — 
Inquire  not  now.     His  name  no  more 
Glimmers  on  the  chancel-floor, 
Near  the  lights  that  ever  shine 
Before  ST.  MARY'S  blessed  shrine. 

To  me  one  little  hour  devote, 
And  lay  thy  staff  and  scrip  beside  thee  ; 

the  testimony  of  Garcia  Fernandez,  the  physician  of  Palos,  a  sea-faring 
man,  accompanied  by  a  very  young  boy,  stopped  one  day  at  the  gate  of  the 
Convent  of  La  Rabida,  and  asked  of  the  porter  a  little  bread  and  water  for 
his  child.  While  they  were  receiving  this  humble  refreshment,  the  prior, 
Juan  Perez,  happening  to  pass  by,  was  struck  with  the  look  and  manner  of 
the  stranger,  and,  entering  into  conversation  with  him,  soon  learnt  the  par 
ticulars  of  his  story.  The  stranger  was  Columbus  ;  the  boy  was  his  son 
Diego  ;  and,  but  for  this  accidental  interview,  America  might  have  re 
mained  long  undiscovered  :  for  it  was  to  the  zeal  of  Juan  Perez  that  he 
was  finally  indebted  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  great  purpose. —  See 
Irving's  History  of  Culumbu?. 


COLUMBUS.  117 

Read  in  the  temper  that  he  wrote, 

And  may  his  gentle  spirit  guide  thee  ! 

My  leaves  forsake  me,  one  by  one ; 

The  book-worm  through  and  through  has  gone. 

0,  haste  —  unclasp  me,  and  unfold  ; 

The  tale  within  was  never  told  ! 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


THERE  is  a  spirit  in  the  old  Spanish  chroniclers  of  the  sixteenth  century 
that  may  be  compared  to  the  freshness  of  water  at  the  fountain-head.  Their 
simplicity,  their  sensibility  to  the  strange  and  the  wonderful,  their  very 
weaknesses,  give  an  infinite  value,  by  giving  a  life  and  a  character  to  every 
thing  they  touch;  and  their  religion,  which  bursts  out  everywhere,  addressef 
itself  to  the  imagination  in  the  highest  degree.  If  they  err,  their  errors 
are  not  their  own.  They  think  and  feel  after  the  fashion  of  the  time  ;  and 
their  narratives  are  so  many  moving  pictures  of  the  actions,  manners  and 
thoughts,  of  their  contemporaries. 

What  they  had  to  communicate  might  well  make  them  eloquent  ;  but, 
inasmuch  as  relates  to  Columbus,  the  inspiration  went  no  further.  No 
national  poem  appeared  on  the  subject  ;  no  Camoens  did  honor  to  his  genius 
and  his  virtues.  Yet  the  materials  that  have  descended  to  us  are  surely 
not  unpoetical  ;  and  a  desire  to  avail  myself  of  them,  to  convey  in  some 
instances  as  far  as  I  could,  in  others  as  far  as  I  dared,  their  warmth  of  col 
oring  and  wildness  of  imagery,  led  me  to  conceive  the  idea  of  a  poem  written 
not  long  after  his  death,  when  the  great  consequences  of  the  discovery  were 
beginning  to  unfold  themselves,  but  while  the  minds  of  men  were  still 
clinging  to  the  superstitions  of  their  fathers. 

The  event  here  described  may  be  thought  too  recent  for  the  machinery  ; 
but  I  found  them  together.*  A  belief  in  the  agency  of  evil  spirits  prevailed 
over  both  hemispheres  ;  and  even  yet  seems  almost  necessary  to  enable  us 
to  clear  up  the  darkness, 

And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

*  Perhaps  even  a  contemporary  subject  should  not  be  rejected  as  such,  however  wild 
and  extravagant  it  may  be,  if  the  manners  be  foreign  and  the  place  distant,  —  major  6 
longinquo  reverentia.  L'^loignement  des  pays,  says  Racine,  r^pare  en  quelque  sorte  la 
trop  grande  proximite  des  temps  ;  car  le  peuple  ne  met  guere  de  difference  entre  ce  qui 
est,  si  j'ose  ainsi  parler,  d  mille  ans  de  lui,  et  ce  qui  en  est  d  mille  lieues. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 


COLUMBUS,  having  wandered  from  kingdom  to  kingdom,  at  length  obtains  three  ships, 
and  sets  sail  on  the  Atlantic.  The  compass  alters  from  its  ancient  direction ;  the  wind 
becomes  constant  and  unremitting  5  night  and  day  he  advances,  till  he  is  suddenly  stopped 
in  his  course  by  a  mass  of  vegetation,  extending  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  assuming 
the  appearance  of  a  country  overwhelmed  by  the  sea.  Alarm  and  despondence  on  board. 
He  resigns  himself  to  the  care  of  Heaven,  and  proceeds  on  his  voyage. 

Meanwhile  the  deities  of  America  assemble  in  council  ;  and  one  of  the  Zemi,  the  gods 
of  the  islanders,  announces  his  approach.  "  In  vain,"  says  he,  "  have  we  guarded  the 
Atlantic  for  ages.  A  mortal  has  baffled  our  power  ;  nor  will  our  votaries  arm  against 
him.  Yours  are  a  sterner  race.  Hence  ;  and,  while  we  have  recourse  to  stratagem,  do 
you  array  the  nations  round  your  altars,  and  prepare  for  an  exterminating  war."  They 
disperse  while  he  is  yet  speaking  ;  and,  in  the  shape  of  a  condor,  he  directs  his  flight  to 
the  fleet.  His  journey  described.  He  arrives  there.  A  panic.  A  mutiny.  Columbus 
restores  order  5  continues  on  his  voyage  ;  and  lands  in  a  New  World.  Ceremonies  of 
the  first  interview.  Rites  of  hospitality.  The  ghost  of  Cazziva. 

Two  months  pass  away,  and  an  angel,  appearing  in  a  dream  to  Columbus,  thus 
addresses  him  :  "  Return  to  Europe  ;  though  your  adversaries,  such  is  the  will  of  Heaven, 
shall  let  loose  the  hurricane  against  you.  A  little  while  shall  they  triumph  )  insinuating 
themselves  into  the  hearts  of  your  followers,  and  making  the  world,  which  you  came  to 
bless,  a  scene  of  blood  and  slaughter.  Yet  is  there  cause  for  rejoicing.  Your  work  is 
done.  The  cross  of  Christ  is  planted  here  ;  and,  in  due  time,  all  things  shall  be  made 
perfect ! " 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 


CANTO   I. 
Night  —  Columbus  on  the  Atlantic  —  the  Variation  of  the  Compass,  <fcc. 

SAY  who,  when  age  on  age  had  rolled  away, 
And  still,  as  sunk  the  golden  orb  of  day, 
The  seaman  watched  him,  while  he  lingered  here, 
With  many  a  wish  to  follow,  many  a  fear, 
And  gazed  and  gazed  and  wondered  where  he  went, 
So  bright  his  path,  so  glorious  his  descent, 
Who  first  adventured  ?  —  In  his  birth  obscure, 
Yet  born  to  build  a  Fame  that  should  endure,1 
Who  the  great  secret  of  the  Deep  possessed, 
And,  issuing  through  the  portals  of  the  west, 
Fearless,  resolved,  with  every  sail  unfurled, 
Planted  his  standard  on  the  unknown  world  ? 
Him,  by  the  Paynim  bard  described  of  yore, 
And  ere  his  coming  sung  on  either  shore, 
Him  could  not  I  exalt  —  by  Heaven  designed 
To  lift  the  veil  that  covered  half  mankind  ! 
Yet,  ere  I  die,  I  would  fulfil  my  vow ; 
Praise  cannot  wound  his  generous  spirit  now. 


11 


122          THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

'T  was  night.    The  Moon,  o'er  the  wide  wave,  disclosed 
Her  awful  face ;  and  Nature's  self  reposed  ; 
When,  slowly  rising  in  the  azure  sky, 
Three  white  sails  shone  —  but  to  no  mortal  eye, 
Entering  a  boundless  sea.     In  slumber  cast, 
The  very  ship-boy,  on  the  dizzy  mast, 
Half  breathed  his  orisons  !     Alone  unchanged, 
Calmly,  beneath,  the  great  Commander2  ranged, 
Thoughtful,  not  sad  ;  and,  as  the  planet  grew, 
His  noble  form,  wrapt  in  his  mantle  blue, 
Athwart  the  deck  a  deepening  shadow  threw. 
"  Thee  hath  it  pleased — Thy  will  be  done  ! "  he  said,3 
Then  sought  his  cabin  ;  and,  their  garments  spread, 
Around  him  lay  the  sleeping  as  the  dead, 
When,  by  his  lamp  to  that  mysterious  guide,4 
On  whose  still  counsels  all  his  hopes  relied, 
That  oracle  to  man  in  mercy  given, 
Whose  voice  is  truth,  whose  wisdom  is  from  heaven, 
Who  over  sands  and  seas  directs  the  stray, 
And,  as  with  God's  own  finger,  points  the  way, 
He  turned;  but  what  strange  thoughts  perplexed  his  soul, 
When,  lo  !  no  more  attracted  to  the  pole, 
The  Compass,  faithless  as  the  circling  vane, 
Fluttered  and  fixed,  fluttered  and  fixed  again  ! 
At  length,  as  by  some  unseen  hand  imprest, 
It  sought  with  trembling  energy  —  the  West ! r> 
"  Ah  no  !  "  he  cried,  and  calmed  his  anxious  brow. 
"  111,  nor  the  signs  of  ill,  't  is  thine  to  show ; 
Thine  but  to  lead  me  where  I  wished  to  go  !  " 

COLUMBUS  erred  not.6     In  that  awful  hour, 
Sent  forth  to  save,  and  girt  with  god-like  power, 


THE  VOYAGE  OE  COLUMBUS.          123 

And  glorious  as  the  regent  of  the  sun.7 

An  angel  canie  !     He  spoke,  and  it  was  done  ! 

He  spoke,  and,  at  his  call,  a  mighty  wind,8 

Not  like  the  fitful  blast,  with  fury  blind, 

But  deep,  majestic,  in  its  destined  course, 

Sprung  with  unerring,  unrelenting  force, 

From  the  bright  East.     Tides  duly  ebbed  and  flowed ; 

Stars  rose  and  set ;  and  new  horizons  glowed ; 

Yet  still  it  blew  !     As  with  primeval  sway 

Still  did  its  ample  spirit,  night  and  day, 

Move  on  the  waters  !  —  All,  resigned  to  Fate, 

Folded  their  arms  and  sate ; 9  and  seemed  to  wait 

Some  sudden  change ;  and  sought,  in  chill  suspense, 

New  spheres  of  being,  and  new  modes  of  sense ; 

As  men  departing,  though  not  doomed  to  die, 

And  midway  on  their  passage  to  eternity. 


CANTO    II. 

The  Voyage  continued. 
*  %  *  %  % 

1  •  WHAT  vast  foundations  in  the  abyss  are  there,1 
As  of  a  former  world  ?     Is  it  not  where 
ATLANTIC  kings  their  barbarous  pomp  displayed ; 2 
Sunk  into  darkness  with  the  realms  they  swayed, 
When  towers  and  temples,  through  the  closing  wave, 
A  glimmering  ray  of  ancient  splendor  gave  — 
And  we  shall  rest  with  them?  —  Or  are  we  thrown " 
(Each  gazed  on  each,  and  all  exclaimed  as  one) 
' '  Where  things  familiar  cease  and  strange  begin, 
All  progress  barred  to  those  without,  within  1 


124          THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

—  Soon  is  the  doubt  resolved.     Arise,  behold  — 
We  stop  to  stir  no  more  .  .  .3  nor  will  the  tale  be  told." 

The  pilot  smote  his  breast ;  the  watchman  cried 
"Land  !  "  and  his  voice  in  faltering  accents  died.4 
At  once  the  fury  of  the  prow  was  quelled ; 
And  (whence  or  why  from  many  an  age  withheld) K 
Shrieks,  not  of  men,  were  mingling  in  the  blast ; 
And  armed  shapes  of  god-like  stature  passed  ! 
Slowly  along  the  evening-sky  they  went, 
As  on  the  edge  of  some  vast  battlement ; 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  spear  and  gonfalon, 
Streaming  a  baleful  light  that  was  not  of  the  sun ! 

Long  from  the  stern  the  great  adventurer  gazed 
With  awe,  not  fear ;  then  high  his  hands  he  raised. 
"  Thou  All-supreme  ...  in  goodness  as  in  power, 
Who,  from  his  birth  to  this  eventful  hour, 
Hast  led  thy  servant  over  land  and  sea, 6 
Confessing  Thee  in  all,  and  all  in  Thee, 
0  still"-  — He  spoke,  and,  lo  !  the  charm  accurst 
Fled  whence  it  came,  and  the  broad  barrier  burst  ! 
A  vain  illusion  !   (such  us  mocks  the  eyes 
Of  fearful  men,  when  mountains  round  them  rise 
From  less  than  nothing)  nothing  now  beheld, 
But  scattered  sedge  —  repelling,  and  repelled  ! 

And  once  again  that  valiant  company 
Eight  onward  came,  ploughing  the  unknown  sea. 
Already  borne  beyond  the  range  of  thought, 
With  light  divine,  with  truth  immortal  fraught, 
From  world  to  world  their  steady  course  they  keep,7 
Swift  as  the  winds  along  the  waters  sweep, 
Mid  the  mute  nations  of  the  purple  deep. 


THE   VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  137 

CANTO    IX. 
The  New  World. 

LONG  on  the  deep  the  mists  of  morning  lay, 
Then  rose,  revealing,  as  they  rolled  away, 
Half-circling  hills,  whose  everlasting  woods 
Sweep  with  their  sable  skirts  the  shadowy  floods : 
And  say,  when  all,  to  holy  transport  given, 
Embraced  and  wept  as  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
When  one  and  all  of  us,  repentant,  ran, 
And,  on  our  faces,  blessed  the  wondrous  man ; 
Say,  was  I  then  deceived,  or  from  the  skies 
Burst  on  my  ear  seraphic  harmonies  ? 
"  Glory  to  God  ! "  unnumbered  voices  sung, 
"  Glory  to  God  !  "  the  vales  and  mountains  rung, 
Voices  that  hailed  Creation's  primal  morn, 
And  to  the  shepherds  sung  a  Saviour  born. 

Slowly,  bare-headed,  through  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross,1  and,  kneeling,  kissed  the  shore. 
But  what  a  scene  was  there  ?  2     Nymphs  of  romance,3 
Youths  graceful  as  the  Faun,  with  eager  glance, 
Spring  from  the  glades,  and  down  the  alleys  peep, 
Then  headlong  rush,  bounding  from  steep  to  steep, 
And  clap  their  hands,  exclaiming  as  they  run, 
"  Come  and  behold  the  Children  of  the  Sun  !  "  4 
When  hark,  a  signal-shot !     The  voice,  it  came 
Over  the  sea  in  darkness  and  in  flame  ! 
They  saw,  they  heard :  and  up  the  highest  hill, 
As  in  a  picture,  all  at  once  were  still  ! 
Creatures  so  fair,  in  garments  strangely  wrought, 
From  citadels,  with  Heaven's  own  thunder  fraught, 
12* 


138          THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

Checked  their  light  footsteps  —  statue-like  they  stood, 
As  worshipped  forms,  the  Genii  of  the  Wood  ! 

At  length  the  spell  dissolves  !     The  warrior's  lance 
Rings  on  the  tortoise  with  wild  dissonance  ! 
And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state  ! 5 
Still,  where  it  moves,  the  wise  in  council  wait ! 
See  now  borne  forth  the  monstrous  mask  of  gold, 
And  ebon  chair  of  many  a  serpent-fold  • 
These  now  exchanged  for  gifts  that  thrice  surpass 
The  wondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass.6 
What  long-drawn  tube  transports  the  gazer  home/ 
Kindling  with  stars  at  noon  the  ethereal  dome  ? 
'T  is  here  :  and  here  circles  of  solid  light 
Charm  with  another  self  the  cheated  sight ; 
As  man  to  man  another  self  disclose, 
That  now  with  terror  starts,  with  triumph  glows  ! 


CANTO  x. 

Cora  —  Luxuriant    Vegetation  —  The   Humming-bird  —  The    Fountain  of 

Youth. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

THEN  COEA  came,  the  youngest  of  her  race. 

And  in  her  hands  she  hid  her  lovely  face ; 

Yet  oft  by  stealth  a  timid  glance  she  cast, 

And  now  with  playful  step  the  mirror  passed, 

Each  bright  reflection  brighter  than  the  last  ! 

And  oft  behind  it  flew,  and  oft  before ; 

The  more  she  searched,  pleased  and  perplexed  the  more  ! 

And  looked  and  laughed,  and  blushed  with  quick  surprise ; 

Her  lips  all  mirth,  all  ecstasy  her  eyes  ! 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.  139 

But  soon  the  telescope  attracts  her  view ; 
And,  lo  !  her  lover  in  his  light  canoe 
Rocking,  at  noontide,  on  the  silent  sea, 
Before  her  lies  !     It  cannot,  cannot  be. 
Late  as  he  left  the  shore,  she  lingered  there, 
Till,  less  and  less,  he  melted  into  air !  — 
Sigh  after  sigh  steals  from  her  gentle  frame, 
And  say  —  that  murmur  —  was  it  not  his  name  ? 
She  turns,  and  thinks ;  and,  lost  in  wild  amaze, 
Gazes  again,  and  could  forever  gaze  ! 

Nor  can  thy  flute,  ALONSO,  now  excite 
As  in  VALENCIA,  when,  with  fond  delight, 
FRANCISCA,  waking,  to  the  lattice  flew, 
So  soon  to  love  and  to  be  wretched  too ! 
Hers  through  a  convent-grate  to  send  her  last  adieu. 
—  Yet  who  now  comes  uncalled  ;  and  round  and  round, 
And  near  and  nearer  flutters  to  the  sound ; 
Then  stirs  not,  breathes  not  —  on  enchanted  ground  ? 
Who  now  lets  fall  the  flowers  she  culled  to  wear 
When  he,  who  promised,  should  at  eve  be  there ; 
And  faintly  smiles,  and  hangs  her  head  aside 
The  tear  that  glistens  on  her  cheek  to  hide  ? 
Ah,  who  but  CORA? — till,  inspired,  possessed, 
At  once  she  springs,  and  clasps  it  to  her  breast ! 

Soon  from  the  bay  the  mingling  crowd  ascends, 
Kindred  first  met !  by  sacred  instinct  Friends  ! 
Through  citron-groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize,1 
Through  plantain-walks  where  not  a  sunbeam  plays. 
Here  blue  savannas  fade  into  the  sky, 
There  forests  frown  in  midnight  majesty ; 
Ceiba,2  and  Indian  fig,  and  plane  sublime, 
Nature's  first-born,  and  reverenced  by  Time  ! 


140  THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks  ! 3  there,  quivering,  rise 
Wings  that  reflect  the  glow  of  evening-skies  ! 
Half  bird,  half  fly,4  the  fairy  king  of  flowers5 
Reigns  there,  and  revels  through  the  fragrant  hours ; 6 
Gem  full  of  life,  and  joy  and  song  divine, 
Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine/ 

;T  was  he  that  sung,  if  ancient  Fame  speaks  truth, 
"  Come !  follow,  follow  to  the  Fount  of  Youth  ! 
I  quaff  the  ambrosial  mists  that  round  it  rise, 
Dissolved  and  lost  in  dreams  of  Paradise  !  " 
For  there  called  forth,  to  bless  a  happier  hour, 
It  met  the  sun  in  many  a  rainbow-shower  ! 
Murmuring  delight,  its  living  waters  rolled 
'Mid  branching  palms  and  amaranths  of  gold  ! 8 


CANTO    XI. 
Evening  —  A  Banquet  —  The  Ghost  of  Cazziva. 

THE  tamarind  closed  her  leaves ;  the  marmoset 
Dreamed  on  his  bough,  and  played  the  mimic  yet. 
Fresh  from  the  lake  the  breeze  of  twilight  blew, 
And  vast  and  deep  the  mountain-shadows  grew ; 
When  many  a  fire-fly,  shooting  through  the  glade, 
Spangled  the  locks  of  many  a  lovely  maid, 
Who  now  danced  forth  to  strew  our  path  with  flowers, 
And  hymn  our  welcome  to  celestial  bowers.1 

There  odorous  lamps  adorned  the  festal  rite, 
And  guavas  blushed  as  in  the  vales  of  light.2 
There  silent  sate  many  an  unbidden  guest,3 
Whose  steadfast  looks  a  secret  dread  impressed  ; 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.          129 

Hound,  at  Primero,  sate  a  whiskered  band ; 
So  Fortune  smiled,  careless  of  sea  or  land  ! 3 
LEON,  MoNTALVAN  (serving  side  by  side ; 
TVYO  with  one  soul  —  and,  as  they  lived,  they  died), 
YASCO  the  brave,  thrice  found  among  the  slain, 
Thrice,  and  how  soon,  up  and  in  arms  again, 
As  soon  to  wish  he  had  been  sought  in  vain, 
Chained  down  in  FEZ,  beneath  the  bitter  thong, 
To  the  hard  bench  and  heavy  oar  so  long  ! 
ALBERT  of  FLORENCE,  who,  at  twilight-time, 
In  my  rapt  ear  poured  DANTE'S  tragic  rhyme, 
Screened  by  the  sail  as  near  the  mast  we  lay, 
Our  nights  illumined  by  the  ocean-spray ; 
And  MANFRED,  who  espoused  with  jewelled  ring 
Young  ISABEL,  then  left  her  sorrowing  : 
LERMA  "  the  generous,"  A  VILA  "  the  proud  ;  "4 
VELASQUEZ,  GARCIA,  through  the  echoing  crowd 
Traced  by  their  mirth  —  from  EBRO'S  classic  shore, 
From  golden  TAJO,  to  return  no  more  ! 


CANTO  v. 

The  Voyage  continued. 

*  *  *  *  * 

YET  who  but  he  undaunted  could  explore1 
A  world  of  waves,  a  sea  without  a  shore, 
Trackless  and  vast  and  wild  as  that  revealed 
When  round  the  Ark  the  birds  of  tempest  wheeled ; 
When  all  was  still  in  the  destroying  hour  — 
No  sign  of  man !  no  vestige  of  his  power  ! 


130          THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

One  at  the  stern  before  the  hour-glass  stood, 
As  't  were  to  count  the  sands ;  one  o'er  the  flood 
Gazed  for  St.  Elmo ; 2  while  another  cried 
"  Once  more  good-morrow  ! "  and  sate  down  and  sighed. 
Day,  when  it  came,  came  only  with  its  light. 
Though  long  invoked,  't  was  sadder  than  the  night ! 
Look  where  he  would,  forever  as  he  turned, 
He  met  the  eye  of  one  that  inly  mourned. 

Then  sunk  his  generous  spirit,  and  he  wept. 
The  friend,  the  father  rose  ;  the  hero  slept. 
PALOS,  thy  port,  with  many  a  pang  resigned, 
Filled  with  its  busy  scenes  his  lonely  mind  ; 
The  solemn  march,  the  vows  in  concert  given,3 
The  bended  knees  and  lifted  hands  to  heaven, 
The  incensed  rites,  and  choral  harmonies, 
The  Guardian's  blessings  mingling  with  his  sighs ; 
While  his  dear  boys  —  ah  !  on  his  neck  they  hung,4 
And  long  at  parting  to  his  garments  clung. 

Oft  in  the  silent  night-watch  doubt  and  fear 
Broke  in  uncertain  murmurs  on  his  ear. 
Oft  the  stern  Catalan,  at  noon  of  day, 
Muttered  dark  threats,  and  lingered  to  obey ; 
Though  that  brave  youth — he,  whom  his  courser  bore 
Right  through  the  midst,  when,  fetlock-deep  in  gore, 
The  great  GoNSALVO5  battled  with  the  Moor 
(What  time  the  ALIIAMBRA  shook  —  soon  to  unfold 
Its  sacred  courts,  and  fountains  yet  untold, 
Its  holy  texts  and  arabesques  of  gold), — 
Though  ROLDAN,  sleep  and  death  to  him  alike,6 
Grasped  his  good  sword  and  half  unsheathed  to  strike. 
"0,  born  to  wander  with  your  flocks,"  he  cried, 
"  And  bask  and  dream  along  the  mountain-side ; 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.          131 

To  urge  your  mules,  tinkling  from  hill  to  hill ; 
Or  at  the  vintage  feast  to  drink  your  fill, 
And  strike  your  castanets,  with  gypsy-maid 
Dancing  Fandangos  in  the  chestnut  shade  — 
Come  on,"  he  cried,  and  threw  his  glove  in  scorn, 
"  Not  this  your  wonted  pledge,  the  brimming  horn. 
Valiant  in  peace  !  Adventurous  at  home  ! 
0,  had  ye  vowed  with  pilgrim-staff  to  roam ; 
Or  with  banditti  sought  the  sheltering  wood, 
Where  mouldering  crosses  mark  the  scene  of  blood  !— 
He  said,  he  drew ;  then,  at  his  Master's  frown, 
Sullenly  sheathed,  plunging  the  weapon  down. 
******* 

******* 


CANTO    VI. 
The  Flight  of  an  Angel  of  Darkness. 

WAR  and  the  Great  in  War  let  others  sing,1 
Havoc  and  spoil,  and  tears  and  triumphing ; 
The  morning-march  that  flashes  to  the  sun, 
The  feast  of  vultures  when  the  day  is  done  ; 
And  the  strange  tale  of  many  slain  for  one  ! 
I  sing  a  Man,  amid  his  sufferings  here, 
Who  watched  and  served  in  humbleness  and  fear  ; 
Gentle  to  others,  to  himself  severe. 

Still  unsubdued  by  Danger's  varying  form, 
Still,  as  unconscious  of  the  coming  storm, 
He  looked  elate  ;  and,  with  his  wonted  smile, 
On  the  great  Ordinance  leaning,  would  beguile 


132  THE   VOYAGE   01?   COLUMBUS. 

The  hour  with  talk.     His  beard,  his  mien  sublime, 
Shadowed  by  Age  —  by  Age  before  the  time,2 
From  many  a  sorrow  borne  in  many  a  clime, 
Moved  every  heart.     And  now  in  opener  skies 
Stars  yet  unnamed  of  purer  radiance  rise  ! 
Stars,  milder  suns,  that  love  a  shade  to  cast, 
And  on  the  bright  wave  fling  the  trembling  mast  ! 
Another  firmament  !  the  orbs  that  roll, 
Singly  or  clustering,  round  the  Southern  pole  ! 
Not  yet  the  four  that  glorify  the  Night  — 
Ah  !  how  forget  when  to  my  ravished  sight 
The  Cross  shone  forth  in  everlasting  light  !  3 


'T  was  the  mid  hour,  when  He,  whose  accents  dread 
Still  wandered  through  the  regions  of  the  dead 
(MERION,  commissioned  with  his  host  to  sweep 
From  age  to  age  the  melancholy  deep), 
To  elude  the  seraph-guard  that  watched  for  man, 
And  mar,  as  erst,  the  Eternal's  perfect  plan, 
Rose  like  the  condor,  and,  at  towering  height, 
In  pomp  of  plumage  sailed,  deepening  the  shades  of  night. 
Roc  of  the  West  !  to  him  all  empire  given  !  4 
Who  bears  Axalhua's  dragon  folds  to  heaven  ;  5 
His  flight  a  whirlwind,  and,  when  heard  afar, 
Like  thunder,  or  the  distant  din  of  war  ! 

Mountains  and  seas  fled  backward  as  he  passed 
O'er  the  great  globe,  by  not  a  cloud  o'ercast 
From  the  ANTARCTIC,  from  the  Land  of  Fire  ° 
To  where  ALASKA'S  wintry  wilds  retire;  7 
From  mines  of  gold,8  and  giant-sons  of  earth, 
To  grots  of  ice,  and  tribes  of  pigmy  birth 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.          133 

Who  freeze  alive,  nor,  dead,  in  dust  repose, 
High-hung  in  forests  to  the  casing  snows.9 

Now  mid  angelic  multitudes  he  flies, 
That  hourly  come  with  blessings  from  the  skies ; 
Wings  the  blue  element,  and,  borne  sublime, 
Eyes  the  set  sun,  gilding  each  distant  clime ; 
Then,  like  a  meteor  shooting  to  the  main, 
Melts  into  pure  intelligence  again. 

*  *         *         *         *         *         * 

*  *         ***** 


CANTO  VII. 
A  Mutiny  excited. 

WHAT  though  Despondence  reigned,  and  wild  Affright — 
Stretched  in  the  midst,  and,  through  that  dismal  night/ 
By  his  white  plume  revealed  and  buskins  white,2 
Slept  ROLDAN.     When  he  closed  his  gay  career, 
Hope  fled  forever,  and  with  Hope  fled  Fear. 
Blest  with  each  gift  indulgent  Fortune  sends, 
Birth  and  its  rights,  wealth  and  its  train  of  friends, 
Star-like  he  shone  !     Now  beggared  and  alone, 

co  7 

Danger  he  wooed,  and  claimed  her  for  his  own. 
O'er  him  a  Yampire  his  dark  wings  displayed.3 
'Twas  MERION'S  self,  covering  with  dreadful  shade.4 
He  came,  and,  couched  on  ROLDAN'S  ample  breast, 
Each  secret  pore  of  breathing  life  possessed, 
Fanning  the  sleep  that  seemed  his  final  rest ; 
Then,  inly  gliding  like  a  subtle  flame,3 
Thrice,  with  a  cry  that  thrilled  the  mortal  frame, 
12 


134  THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

Called  on  the  Spirit  within.     Disdaining  flight, 
Calmly  she  rose,  collecting  all  her  might.6 
Dire  was  the  dark  encounter !     Long  unquelled, 
Her  sacred  seat,  sovereign  and  pure,  she  held. 
At  length  the  great  foe  binds  her  for  his  prize, 
And  awful,  as  in  death,  the  body  lies  ! 

Not  long  to  slumber  !     In  an  evil  hour 
Informed  and  lifted  by  the  unknown  power, 
It  starts,  it  speaks  !    "  We  live,  wre  breathe  no  more  ! 
The  fatal  wind  blows  on  the  dreary  shore  ! 
On  yonder  cliffs  beckoning  their  fellow-prey, 
The  spectres  stalk,  and  murmur  at  delay  ! 7 

-  Yet  if  thou  canst  (not  for  myself  I  plead  ! 
Mine  but  to  follow  where  'tis  thine  to  lead), 
0,  turn  and  save  !    To  thee,  with  streaming  eyes, 
To  thee  each  widow  kneels,  each  orphan  cries  ! 
Who  now,  condemned  the  lingering  hours  to  tell, 
Think  and  but  think  of  those  they  loved  so  well  ! " 

All  melt  in  tears  !  but  what  can  tears  avail  ? 
These  climb  the  mast,  and  shift  the  swelling  sail. 
These  snatch  the  helm  ;  and  round  me  now  I  hear 
Smiting  of  hands,  outcries  of  grief  and  fear 8 
(That  in  the  aisles  at  midnight  haunt  me  still, 
Turning  my  lonely  thoughts  from  good  to  ill). 
11  Were  there  no  graves — none  in  our  land,"  they  cry, 
"  That  thou  hast  brought  us  on  the  deep  to  die  ?" 

Silent  with  sorrow,  long  within  his  cloak 
His  face  he  muffled  —  then  the  HERO  spoke. 
"  Generous  and  brave  !  when  God  himself  is  here, 
Why  shake  at  shadows  in  your  mid  career  ? 
He  can  suspend  the  laws  himself  designed, 
He  walks  the  waters,  and  the  winged  wind ; 


THE  VOYAGE  OP  COLUMBUS.  135 

Himself  your  guide  !  and  yours  the  high  behest, 
To  lift  your  voice,  and  bid  a  world  be  blest ! 
And  can  you  shrink  ?  to  you,  to  you  consigned 9 
The  glorious  privilege  to  serve  mankind ! 
0,  had  I  perished,  when  my  failing  frame  10 
Clung  to  the  shattered  oar  mid  wrecks  of  flame  ! 

—  Was  it  for  this  I  lingered  life  away, 

The  scorn  of  Folly,  and  of  Fraud  the  prey  ;u 
Bowed  down  my  mind,  the  gift  His  bounty  gave, 
At  courts  a  suitor,  and  to  slaves  a  slave  ? 

—  Yet  in  His  name  whom  only  we  should  fear 
('T  is  all,  all  I  shall  ask,  or  you  shall  hear) 

Grant  but  three  days."   —He  spoke  not  uninspired;12 
And  each  in  silence  to  his  watch  retired. 

At  length  among  us  came  an  unknown  Voice  ! 
"  Go^  if  ye  will;  and,  if  ye  can,  rejoice. 
Go,  with  unbidden  guests  the  banquet  share. 
In  his  own  shape  shall  Death  receive  you  there."13 


CANTO    VIII. 

Land  discovered. 

TWICE  in  the  zenith  blazed  the  orb  of  light ; 
No  shade,  all  sun,  insufferably  bright ! 
Then  the  long  line  found  rest  —  in  coral  groves 
Silent  and  dark,  where  the  sea-lion  roves  :  — 
And  all  on  deck,  kindling  to  life  again, 
Sent  forth  their  anxious  spirits  o'er  the  main. 

"  0  whence,  as  wafted  from  Elysium,  whence 
These  perfumes,  strangers  to  the  raptured  sense  ? 


136  THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

These  boughs  of  gold,  and  fruits  of  heavenly  hue, 
Tinging  with  vermeil  light  the  billows  blue  ? 
And  (thrice,  thrice  blessed  is  the  eve  that  spied, 
The  hand  that  snatched  it  sparkling  in  the  tide) 
Whose  cunning  carved  this  vegetable  bowl,1 
Symbol  of  social  rites  and  intercourse  of  soul  ?" 
Such  to  their  grateful  ear  the  gush  of  springs, 
Who  course  the  ostrich,  as  away  she  wings ; 
Sons  of  the  desert !  who  delight  to  dwell 
'Mid  kneeling  camels  round  the  sacred  well ; 
Who,  ere  the  terrors  of  his  pomp  be  passed, 
Fall  to  the  demon  in  the  reddening  blast.2 

The  sails  were  furled  ;  with  many  a  melting  close, 
Solemn  and  slow  the  evening-anthem  rose, 
Rose  to  the  Virgin.3      'T  was  the  hour  of  day 
When  setting  suns  o'er  summer-seas  display. 
A  path  of  glory,  opening  in  the  west 
To  golden  climes,  and  islands  of  the  blest ; 
And  human  voices,  on  the  silent  air, 
Went  o'er  the  waves  in  songs  of  gladness  there  ! 

Chosen  of  Men  ! 4      'T  was  thine,  at  noon  of  night, 
First  from  the  prow  to  hail  the  glimmering  light ; 5 
(Emblem  of  Truth  divine,  whose  secret  ray 
Enters  the  soul,  and  makes  the  darkness  day !) 
"  PEDRO  !  EODKIGO  ! 6  there,  methought,  it  shone  ! 
There  —  in  the  west !  and  now,  alas  !  't  is  gone  !  — 
'T  was  all  a  dream  !  we  gaze  and  gaze  in  vain  ! 
—  But  mark  and  speak  not,  there  it  comes  again ! 
It  moves  !  what  form  unseen,  what  being  there 
With  torch-like  lustre  fires  the  murky  air  ? 
His  instincts,  passions,  say,  how  like  our  own  ? 
0  !  when  will  day  reveal  a  world  unknown?  " 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  187 

CANTO    IX. 
The  New  World. 

LONG  on  the  deep  the  mists  of  morning  lay, 
Then  rose,  revealing,  as  they  rolled  away, 
Half-circling  hills,  whose  everlasting  woods 
Sweep  with  their  sable  skirts  the  shadowy  floods : 
And  say,  when  all,  to  holy  transport  given, 
Embraced  and  wept  as  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
When  one  and  all  of  us,  repentant,  ran, 
And,  on  our  faces,  blessed  the  wondrous  man ; 
Say,  was  I  then  deceived,  or  from  the  skies 
Burst  on  my  ear  seraphic  harmonies  ? 
"  Glory  to  God  ! "  unnumbered  voices  sung, 
"  Glory  to  God  !  "  the  vales  and  mountains  rung, 
Voices  that  hailed  Creation's  primal  morn, 
And  to  the  shepherds  sung  a  Saviour  born. 

Slowly,  bare-headed,  through  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross,1  and,  kneeling,  kissed  the  shore. 
But  what  a  scene  was  there  ?  2     Nymphs  of  romance,3 
Youths  graceful  as  the  Faun,  with  eager  glance, 
Spring  from  the  glades,  and  down  the  alleys  peep, 
Then  headlong  rush,  bounding  from  steep  to  steep, 
And  clap  their  hands,  exclaiming  as  they  run, 
11  Come  and  behold  the  Children  of  the  Sun  !  "  4 
When  hark,  a  signal-shot !     The  voice,  it  came 
Over  the  sea  in  darkness  and  in  flame  ! 
They  saw,  they  heard :  and  up  the  highest  hill, 
As  in  a  picture,  all  at  once  were  still  ! 
Creatures  so  fair,  in  garments  strangely  wrought, 
From  citadels,  with  Heaven's  own  thunder  fraught, 
12* 


138          THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

Checked  their  light  footsteps  —  statue-like  they  stood, 
As  worshipped  forms,  the  Genii  of  the  Wood  ! 

At  length  the  spell  dissolves  !     The  warrior's  lance 
Kings  on  the  tortoise  with  wild  dissonance  ! 
And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state  ! 5 
Still,  where  it  moves,  the  wise  in  council  wait ! 
See  now  borne  forth  the  monstrous  mask  of  gold. 
And  ebon  chair  of  many  a  serpent-fold ; 
These  now  exchanged  for  gifts  that  thrice  surpass 
The  wondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass.6 
What  long-drawn  tube  transports  the  gazer  home,7 
Kindling  with  stars  at  noon  the  ethereal  dome  ? 
'T  is  here :  and  here  circles  of  solid  light 
Charm  with  another  self  the  cheated  sight ; 
As  man  to  man  another  self  disclose, 
That  now  with  ferror  starts,  with  triumph  glows  ! 


CANTO  x. 

Cora  —  Luxuriant    Vegetation  —  The  Humming-bird  —  The    Fountain  of 

Youth. 
**##*•# 


tf  CORA  came,  the  youngest  of  her  race, 
And  in  her  hands  she  hid  her  lovely  face  ; 
Yet  oft  by  stealth  a  timid  glance  she  cast, 
And  now  with  playful  step  the  mirror  passed, 
Each  bright  reflection  brighter  than  the  last  ! 
And  oft  behind  it  flew,  and  oft  before  ; 
The  more  she  searched,  pleased  and  perplexed  the  more  ! 
And  looked  and  laughed,  and  blushed  with  quick  surprise  ; 
Her  lips  all  mirth,  all  ecstasy  her  eyes  ! 


THE   VOYAGE    OF   COLUMBUS.  1 

But  soon  the  telescope  attracts  her  view ; 
And,  lo  !  her  lover  in  his  light  canoe 
Rocking,  at  noontide,  on  the  silent  sea, 
Before  her  lies  !     It  cannot,  cannot  be. 
Late  as  he  left  the  shore,  she  lingered  there, 
Till,  less  and  less,  he  melted  into  air !  — 
Sigh  after  sigh  steals  from  her  gentle  frame, 
And  say  —  that  murmur  —  was  it  not  his  name  ? 
She  turns,  and  thinks ;  and,  lost  in  wild  amaze, 
Gazes  again,  and  could  forever  gaze  ! 

Nor  can  thy  flute,  ALONSO,  now  excite 
As  in  VALENCIA,  when,  with  fond  delight, 
FRANCISCA,  waking,  to  the  lattice  flew, 
So  soon  to  love  and  to  be  wretched  too ! 
Hers  through  a  convent-grate  to  send  her  last  adieu. 
—  Yet  who  now  comes  uncalled  ;  and  round  and  round, 
And  near  and  nearer  flutters  to  the  sound ; 
Then  stirs  not,  breathes  not  —  on  enchanted  ground  ? 
Who  now  lets  fall  the  flowers  she  culled  to  wear 
When  he,  wTho  promised,  should  at  eve  be  there ; 
And  faintly  smiles,  and  hangs  her  head  aside 
The  tear  that  glistens  on  her  cheek  to  hide  ? 
Ah,  who  but  CORA?  —  till,  inspired,  possessed, 
At  once  she  springs,  and  clasps  it  to  her  breast ! 

Soon  from  the  bay  the  mingling  crowd  ascends, 
Kindred  first  met !  by  sacred  instinct  Friends  ! 
Through  citron-groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize,1 
Through  plantain- walks  where  not  a  sunbeam  plays. 
Here  blue  savannas  fade  into  the  sky, 
There  forests  frown  in  midnight  majesty ; 
Ceiba,2  and  Indian  fig,  and  plane  sublime, 
Nature's  first-born,  and  reverenced  by  Time  ! 


140  THE  VOYAGE  OP  COLUMBUS. 

There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks  ! 3  there,  quivering,  rise 
"Wings  that  reflect  the  glow  of  evening-skies  ! 
Half  bird,  half  fly,4  the  fairy  king  of  flowers5 
Reigns  there,  and  revels  through  the  fragrant  hours ; 6 
Gem  full  of  life,  and  joy  and  song  divine, 
Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine/ 

?T  was  he  that  sung,  if  ancient  Fame  speaks  truth, 
"  Come  !  follow,  follow  to  the  Fount  of  Youth  ! 
I  quaft*  the  ambrosial  mists  that  round  it  rise. 
Dissolved  and  lost  in  dreams  of  Paradise  !  " 
For  there  called  forth,  to  bless  a  happier  hour, 
It  met  the  sun  in  many  a  rainbow-shower  ! 
Murmuring  delight,  its  living  waters  rolled 
'Mid  branching  palms  and  amaranths  of  gold  ! 8 


CANTO  XL  ^ 

Evening  —  A  Banquet  —  The  Ghost  of  Cazziva. 

THE  tamarind  closed  her  leaves ;  the  marmoset 
Dreamed  on  his  bough,  and  played  the  mimic  yet. 
Fresh  from  the  lake  the  breeze  of  twilight  blew, 
And  vast  and  deep  the  mountain-shadows  grew ; 
When  many  a  fire-fly,  shooting  through  the  glade, 
Spangled  the  locks  of  many  a  lovely  maid, 
Who  now  danced  forth  to  strew  our  path  with  flowers, 
And  hymn  our  welcome  to  celestial  bowers.1 

There  odorous  lamps  adorned  the  festal  rite, 
And  guavas  blushed  as  in  the  vales  of  light.2 
There  silent  sate  many  an  unbidden  guest,3 
Whose  steadfast  looks  a  secret  dread  impressed ; 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.          141 

Not  there  forgot  the  sacred  fruit  that  fed 
At  nightly  feasts  the  spirits  of  the  dead, 
Mingling  in  scenes  that  mirth  to  mortals  give, 
But  by  their  sadness  known  from  those  that  live. 

There  met,  as  erst,  within  the  wonted  grove, 
Unmarried  girls  and  youths  that  died  for  love  ! 
Sons  now  beheld  their  ancient  sires  again ; 
And  sires,  alas  !  their  sons  in  battle-slain  ! 4 

But  whence  that  sigh  ?    'T  was  from  a  heart  that  broke  ! 
And  whence  that  voice  ?     As  from  the  grave  it  spoke  ! 
And  who,  as  unresolved  the  feast  to  share, 
Sits  half- withdrawn  in  faded  splendor  there  ? 
'Tis  he  of  yore,  the  warrior  and  the  sage, 
Whose  lips  have  moved  in  prayer  from  age  to  age ; 
Whose  eyes,  that  wandered  as  in  search  before, 
Now  on  COLUMBUS  fixed  —  to  search  no  more  ! 
CAZZIVA,5  gifted  in  his  day  to  know 
The  gathering  signs  of  a  long  night  of  woe ; 
Gifted  by  those  who  give  but  to  enslave ; 
No  rest  in  death  !  no  refuge  in  the  grave  ! 
—  With  sudden  spring  as  at  the  shout  of  war, 
He  flies  !  and,  turning  in  his  flight,  from  far 
Glares  through  the  gloom  like  some  portentous  star ! 
Unseen,  unheard  !     Hence,  minister  of  ill ! G 
Hence,  't  is  not  yet  the  hour  !  though  come  it  will ! 
They  that  foretold  —  too  soon  shall  they  fulfil ; 7 
When  forth  they  rush  as  with  the  torrent's  sweep,8 
And  deeds  are  done  that  make  the  angels  weep  ! 

Hark,  o'er  the  busy  mead  the  shell  proclaims 9 
Triumphs,  and  masques,  and  high  heroic  games. 
And  now  the  old  sit  round ;  and  now  the  young 
Climb  the  green  boughs,  the  murmuring  doves  among. 


142  THE  VOYAGE  OP  COLUMBUS. 

Who  claims  the  prize,  when  winged  feet  contend ; 

When  twanging  bows  the  flaming  arrows  send  ? 10 

Who  stands  self-centred  in  the  field  of  fame, 

And,  grappling,  flings  to  earth  a  giant's  frame  ? 

Whilst  all,  with  anxious  hearts  and  eager  eyes, 

Bend  as  he  bends,  and,  as  he  rises,. rise  ! 

And  CORA'S  self,  in  pride  of  beauty  here, 

Trembles  with  grief  and  joy,  and  hope  and  fear ! 

(She  who,  the  fairest,  ever  flew  the  first, 

With  cup  of  balm  to  quench  his  burning  thirst ; 

Knelt  at  his  head,  her  fan-leaf  in  her  hand, 

And  hummed  the  air  that  pleased  him,  while  she  fanned) 

How  blest  his  lot !  —  though*  by  tke  Muse  unsung, 

His  name  shall  perish,  when  his  knell  is  rung. 

That  night,  transported,  with  a  sigh  I  said 
"  'T  is  all  a  dream  ! "  —  Now,  like  a  dream,  't  is  fled  ; 
And  many  and  many  a  year  has  passed  away, 
And  I  alone  remain  to  watch  and  pray  ! 
Yet  oft  in  darkness,  on  my  bed  of  straw, 
Oft  I  awake  and  think  on  what  I  saw  ! 
The  groves,  the  birds,  the  youths,  the  nymphs  recall, 
And  CORA,  loveliest,  sweetest  of  them  all ! 


CANTO    XII. 
A  Vision. 


STILL  would  I  speak  of  him,  before  I  went, 
Who  among  us  a  life  of  sorrow  spent,1 
And,  dying,  left  a  world  his  monument ; 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.          143 

Still,  if  the  time  allowed  !     My  hour  draws  near ; 
But  he  will  prompt  me  when  I  faint  with  fear. 
—  Alas,  he  hears  me  not !     He  cannot  hear  ! 

Twice  the  moon  filled  her  silver  urn  with  light. 
Then  from  the  throne  an  angel  winged  his  flight ; 
He,  who  unfixed  the  compass,  and  assigned 
O'er  the  wild  waves  a  pathway  to  the  wind ; 
Who,  while  approached  by  none  but  spirits  pure, 
Wrought,  in  his  progress  through  the  dread  obscure, 
Signs  like  the  ethereal  bow  —  that  shall  endure  ! 2 

As  he  descended  through  the  upper  air, 
Day  broke  on  day 3  as  God  himself  were  there  ! 
Before  the  great  discoverer,  laid  to  rest, 
He  stood,  and  thus  his  secret  soul  addressed.4 

"  The  wind  recalls  thee  ;  its  still  voice  obey. 
Millions  await  thy  coming  ;  hence,  away. 
To  thee  blest  tidings  of  great  joy  consigned, 
Another  nature,  and  a  new  mankind  ! 
The  vain  to  dream,  the  wise  to  doubt,  shall  cease ; 
Young  men  be  glad,  and  old  depart  in  peace  ! 5 
Hence  !  though  assembling  in  the  fields  of  air, 
Now,  in  a  night  of  clouds,  thy  foes  prepare 
To  rock  the  globe  with  elemental  wars, 
And  dash  the  floods  of  ocean  to  the  stars ; 6 
To  bid  the  meek  repine,  the  valiant  weep, 
And  thee  restore  thy  secret  to  the  deep  ! 7 

"  Not  then  to  leave  thee  !  to  their  vengeance  cast, 
Thy  heart  their  aliment,  their  dire  repast ! 8 

To  other  eyes  shall  MEXICO  unfold 

Her  feathered  tapestries,  and  roofs  of  gold, 


144          THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

To  other  eyes,  from  distant  cliff  descried,9 
Shall  the  PACIFIC  roll  his  ample  tide ; 
There  destined  soon  rich  argosies  to  ride. 
Chains  thy  reward  !  beyond  the  ATLANTIC  wave 
Hung  in  thy  chamber,  buried  in  thy  grave  !  10 
Thy  reverend  form  u  to  time  and  grief  a  prey, 
A  spectre  wandering  in  the  light  of  day  ! 13 

"  What  though  thy  gray  hairs  to  the  dust  descend, 
Their  scent  shall  track  thee,  track  thee  to  the  end ; 
Thy  sons  reproached  with  their  great  father's  fame,13 
And  on  his  world  inscribed  another's  name  ! 
That  world  a  prison-house,  full  of  sights  of  woe, 
Where  groans  burst  forth,  and  tears  in  torrents  flow ! 
These  gardens  of  the  sun,  sacred  to  song, 
By  dogs  of  carnage,14  howling  loud  and  long, 
Swept  —  till  the  voyager,  in  the  desert  air,15 
Starts  back  to  hear  his  altered  accents  there  ! 1G 

"  Not  thine  the  olive,  but  the  sword  to  bring  ; 
Not  peace,  but  war !  Yet  from  these  shores  shall  spring 
Peace  without  end ; ir  from  these,  with  blood  defiled. 
Spread  the  pure  spirit  of  thy  Master  mild ! 
Here,  in  His  train,  shall  arts  and  arms  attend,18 
Arts  to  adorn,  and  arms  but  to  defend. 
Assembling  here,  all  nations  shall  be  blest ; 10 
The  sad  be  comforted ;  the  weary  rest ; 
Untouched  shall  drop  the  fetters, from  the  slave;  * 
And  He  shall  rule  the  world  he  died  to  save  ! 

"  Hence,  and  rejoice.  The  glorious  work  is  done 
A  spark  is  thrown  that  shall  eclipse  the  sun  ! 
And,  though  bad  men  shall  long  thy  course  pursue 
As  erst  the-  ravening  brood  o'er  chaos  flew,21 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.  145 

He,  whom  I  serve,  shall  vindicate  his  reign ; 
The  spoiler  spoiled  of  all ; 22  the  slayer  slain  ;  * 
The  tyrant's  self,  oppressing  and  opprest, 
Mid  gems  and  gold  unenvied  and  unblest : 24 
While  to  the  starry  sphere  thy  name  shall  rise, 
(Not  there  unsung  thy  generous  enterprise  !) 
Thine  in  all  hearts  to  dwell  —  by  Fame  enshrined, 
With  those,  the  few,  that  live  but  for  mankind ; 
Thine  evermore,  transcendant  happiness  ! 
World  beyond  world  to  visit  and  to  bless." 
13 


ON  the  two  last  leaves,  and  written  in  another  hand,  are  some  stanzas 
in  the  romance  or  ballad  measure  of  the  Spaniards.  The  subject  is  an 
adventure  soon  related. 

THY  lonely  watch-tower,  Larenille, 

Had  lost  the  western  sun ; 

And  loud  and  long  from  hill  to  hill 

Echoed  the  evening-gun, 

When  Hernan,  rising  on  his  oar, 

Shot  like  an  arrow  from  the  shore. 

—  "  Those  lights  are  on  St.  Mary's  Isle ; 

They  glimmer  from  the  sacred  pile."1 

The  waves  were  rough ;  the  hour  was  late. 

But  soon  across  the  Tinto  borne, 

Thrice  he  blew  the  signal-horn, 

He  blew  and  would  not  wait. 

Home  by  his  dangerous  path  he  went  ; 

Leaving,  in  rich  habiliment, 

Two  strangers  at  the  convent-gate. 

They  ascended  by  steps  hewn  out  in  the  rock;  and,  having  asked  for 
admittance,  were  lodged  there. 

Brothers  in  arms  the  guests  appeared ; 
The  youngest  with  a  princely  grace  ! 
Short  and  sable  was  his  beard, 
Thoughtful  and  wan  his  face. 
His  velvet  cap  a  medal  bore, 
And  ermine  fringed  his  broidered  vest ; 
And,  ever  sparkling  on  his  breast, 
An  image  of  St.  John  he  wore.2 


COLUMBUS.  147 

The  eldest  had  a  rougher  aspect,  and  there  was  craft  in  his  eye  He 
stood  a  little  behind,  in  a  long  black  mantle,  his  hand  resting  on  the  hilt  of 
his  sword;  and  his  white  hat  and  white  shoes  glittered  in  the  moonshine.3 

"  Not  here  unwelcome,  though  unknown. 

Enter  and  rest ! "  the  friar  said. 

The  moon,  that  through  the  portal  shone, 

Shone  on  his  reverend  head. 

Through  many  a  court  and  gallery  dim 

Slowly  he  led,  the  burial-hymn 

Swelling  from  the  distant  choir. 

But  now  the  holy  men  retire ; 

The  arched  cloisters  issuing  through, 

In  long,  long  order,  two  and  two. 

*  *         *         *         #         * 

When  other  sounds  had  died  away, 
And  the  waves  'were  heard  alone, 
They  entered,  though  unused  to  pray, 
Where  God  was  worshipped,  night  and  day, 
And  the  dead  knelt  round  in  stone  ; 
They  entered,  and  from  aisle  to  aisle 
Wandered  with  folded  arms  a  while, 
Where  on  his  altar-tomb  reclined 4 
The  crosiered  abbot ;  and  the  knight, 
In  harness  for  the  Christian  fight, 
His  hands  in  supplication  joined  ;  — 
Then  said,  as  in  a  solemn  mood, 
"  Now  stand  we  where  COLUMBUS  stood  ! " 

#  *         *         *         *         # 

"  PEREZ,5  thou  good  old  man,"  they  cried, 
"  And  art  thou  in  thy  place  of  rest  ?  - 
Though  in  the  western  world  his  grave,6 
That  other  world,  the  gift  he  gave/ 


148  COLUMBUS. 

Would  ye  were  sleeping  side  by  side  ! 
Of  all  his  friends  he  loved  thee  best." 


The  supper  in  the  chamber  done, 
Much  of  a  southern  sea  they  spake. 
And  of  that  glorious  city8  won 
Near  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
Throned  in  a  silver  lake ; 
Of  seven  kings  in  chains  of  gold,9 
And  deeds  of  death  by  tongue  untold, 
Deeds  such  as  breathed  in  secret  there 
Had  shaken  the  confession-chair  ! 

The  eldest  swore  by  our  Lady,10  the  youngest  by  his  conscience;  n  while 
the  Franciscan,  sitting  by  in  his  gray  habit,  turned  away  and  crossed  him 
self  again  and  again.  "Here  is  a  little  book,"  said  he  at  last,  "the  work 
of  him  in  his  shroud  below.  It  tells  of  things  you  hare  mentioned;  and, 
were  Cortes  and  Pizarro  here,  it  might  perhaps  make  them  reflect  for  a  mo 
ment."  The  youngest  smiled  as  he  took  it  into  his  hand.  He  read  it 
aloud  to  his  companion  with  an  unfaltering  voice ;  but,  when  he  laid  it 
down,  a  silence  ensued;  nor  was  he  seen  to  smile  again  -that  night.12  "  The 
eurse  is  heavy,"  said  he  at  parting,  "  but  Cortes  may  live  to  disappoint 
it."  —  «  Ay,  and  Pizarro  too  !  " 


%*  A  circumstance,  recorded  by  Herrera,  renders  this  visit  not  improba 
ble.  "In  May,  1528,  Cortes  arrived  unexpectedly  at  Palosr  and,  soon 
after  he  had  landed,  he  and  Pizarro  met  and  rejoiced;  and  it  was  remark 
able  that  they  should  meet,  as  they  were  two  of  the  most  renowned  men  in 
the  world."  B.  Diaz  makes  no  mention  of  the  interview;  but,  relating  an 
occurrence  that  took  place  at  this  time  in  Palos,  says  "  that  Cortes  was 
now  absent  at  Neustra  Senora  de  la  Kabida."  The  convent  is  within  half 
a  league  of  the  town. 


NOTES. 


CANTO   I. 

(1)  IN  him  was  fulfilled  the  ancient  prophecy, 

venient  annis 

Secula  seris,  quibus  Oceanus 
Yincula  rerum  laxet,  &c. 

Seneca  in  Medea,  v.  374. 

Which  Tasso  has  imitated  in  his  Gierusalemme  Liberata. 

Tempo  verrA,  che  fian  d'Ercole  i  segni 
Favola,  vile,  &c.  c.  xv.  30. 

The  poem  opens  on  Friday  the  14th  of  September,  1492. 

(2)  In  the  original,  El  Almirante.     "In  Spanish  America,"  says  M.  de  Humboldt, 
"  when  EL  Almirante  is  pronounced  without  the  addition  of  a  name,  that  of  Columbus  is 
understood  ;  as,  from  the  lips  of  a  Mexican,  El  Marchese  signifies  Cortes  ; "  and  as, 
among  the  Florentines,  II  Segretario  has  always  signified  Machiavel. 

(3)  "  It  has  pleased  our  Lord  to  grant  me  faith  and  assurance  for  this  enterprise.    He 
has  opened  my  understanding,  and  made  me  most  willing  to  go."  —  See  his  Life  by  his 
Son,  Ferd.  Columbus,  entitled,  Hist,    del  Almirante  Don  Christoval.  Colon,  c.  4 
&  37. 

His  will  begins  thus  :  "  In  the  name  of  the  most  holy  Trinity,  who  inspired  me  with 
the  idea,  and  who  afterwards  made  it  clear  to  me,  that  by  traversing  the  ocean  west- 
wardly,"  &c. 

(4)  The  compass  might  well  be  an  object  of  superstition.    A  belief  is  said  to  prevail,  even 
at  this  day,  that  it  will  refuse  to  traverse  when  there  is  a  dead  body  on  board. 

(3)  Herrera,  dec.  I.  lib.  i.  c.  9. 

(6)  When  these  regions  were  to  be  illuminated,  says  Acosta,  cum  divino  concilio  decretum 
esset,  prospectum  etiam  divinitus  est,  ut  tarn  longi  itineris  dux  certus  hominibus  praebere- 
tur.  —  De  Natura  Novi  Orbis. 

A  romantic  circumstance  is  related  of  some  early  navigator  in  the  Histoire  G£n.  dcs 
Voyages,  I.  i.  2.  "  On  trouva  dans  1'lle  de  Cuervo  une  statue  equestre,  couverte  d'un 
manteau,  mais  la  t6te  nue,  qui  tenoit  de  la  main  gauche  la  bride  du  cheval,  et  qui  mon- 
troit  1'occident  de  la  main  droite.  II  y  avoit  sur  le  bas  d'un  roc  quelques  lettres  gravees, 
qui  ne  furent  point  entendues  ;  mais  il  parut  clairement  que  le  signe  de  la  main  regar- 
doit  1'Amerique." 

(7)  Rev.  19  :  17. 

13* 


150  NOTES. 


(8)  The  more  Christian  opinion  is,  that  God,  with  eyes  of  compassion,  as  it  were,  looking 
down  from  heaven,  called  forth  those  winds  of  mercy,  whereby  this  new  world  received 
the  hope  of  salvation.  —  Preambles  to  the  Decades  of  the  Ocean. 

(9)  To  return  was  deemed  impossible,  as  it  blew  always  from  home.  —  Hist,  del  Almi~ 
rante,  c.  19.    Nos  pavidi  —  at  pater  Anchises  —  laetus. 


CANTO  II. 

(1)  Tasso  employs  preternatural  agents  on  a  similar  occasion, 

Trappassa,  et  ecco  in  quel  silvestre  loco 
Sorge  improvisa  la  cittd  del  foco.  —  xiii.  33. 

Gli  incanti  d'Ismeno,  che  ingannano  con  delusioni,  altro  non  significano,  che  la  falsM  delle 
ragioui,  et  delle  persuasioni,  la  qual  si  genera  nella  moltitudine,  et  varietd  de'  pareri,  et 
de'  discorsi  humani. 

(2)  gee  Plato's  Timaeus  ;  where  mention  is  made  of  mighty  kingdoms,  which,  in  a  day 
and  a  night,  had  disappeared  in  the  Atlantic,  rendering  its  waters  unnavigable. 

Si  quseras  Helicen  et  Burin,  Achaidas  urbes, 
Invenies  sub  aquis. 

At  the  destruction  of  Callao,  in  1747,  no  more  than  one  of  all  the  inhabitants  escaped  ; 
and  he  by  a  providence  the  most  extraordinary.  This  man  was  on  the  fort  that  over 
looked  the  harbor,  going  to  strike  the  flag,  when  he  perceived  the  sea  to  retire  to  a  con 
siderable  distance  ;  and  then,  swelling  mountain-high,  it  returned  with  great  violence. 
The  people  ran  from  their  houses  in  terror  and  confusion  ;  he  heard  a  cry  of  Miserere 
rise  from  all  parts  of  the  city  ;  and  immediately  all  was  silent ;  the  sea  had  entirely  over 
whelmed  it,  and  buried  it  forever  in  its  bosom  ;  but  the  same  wave  that  destroyed  it  drove 
a  little  boat  by  the  place  where  he  stood,  into  which  he  threw  himself  and  was  saved. 

(3)  The  description  of  a  submarine  forest  is  here  omitted  by  the  translator. 

League  beyond  league  gigantic  foliage  spread, 

Shadowing  old  Ocean  on  his  rocky  bed  ; 

The  lofty  summits  of  resounding  woods, 

That  grasped  the  depths,  and  grappled  with  the  floods  ; 

Such  as  had  climbed  the  mountain's  azure  height, 

When  forth  he  came  and  reassumed  his  right. 

(4)  Historians  are  not  silent  on  the  subject.    The  sailors,  according  to  Herrera,  saw  the 
signs  of  an  inundated  country  (tierras  anegadas)  ;  and  it  was  the  general  expectation  that 
they  should  end  their  lives  there,  as  others  had  done  in  the  frozen  sea,  "  where  St.  Amaro 
Buffers  no  ship  to  stir  backward  or  forward."  — Hist,  del  Almirantc,  c.  19. 

(5)  The  author  seems  to  have  anticipated  his  long  slumber  in  the  library  of  the  Fathers. 

(C)  They  may  give  me  what  name  they  please.  I  am  servant  of  him,  &c.  —  Hist,  del 
Almirante,  c.  2. 

(7)  As  St.  Christopher  carried  Christ  over  the  deep  waters,  so  Columbus  went  over  safe, 
himself  and  his  company.  —  Hist.  c.  1. 

(8)  Water-spouts.  —  See  Edwards'  History  of  the  West  Indies,  1. 12.    Note. 


NOTES.  151 


CANTO  III. 

(1)  Many  of  the  first  discoverers  ended  their  days  in  a  hermitage  or  a  cloister. 

(2)  Vast,  indeed,  must  be  those  dismal  regions,  if  it  be  true,  as  conjectured  (Kircher. 
Mund.  Subt.  I.  202),  that  ^tna,  in  her  eruptions,  has  discharged  twenty  times  her  origi 
nal  bulk.    Well  might  she  be  called  by  Euripides  (Troades,  v.  222)  the  Mother  of 
Mountains ;  yet  2Etna  herself  is  but  "  a  mere  firework,  when  compared  to  the  burning 
Bummits  of  the  Andes." 

(3)  Gods,  yet  confessed  later.  — Milton.    Us  ne  laissent  pas  d'en  6tre  les  esclaves, et  de 
les  honorer  plus  que  le  grand  Esprit,  qui  de  sa  nature  est  bon.  —  Lqfitau. 

(4)  Rivers  in  South  America.    Their  collision  with  the  tide  has  the  effect  of  a  tempest. 

(5)  Lakes  of  North  America.     Huron  is  above  a  thousand  miles  in  circumference. 
Ontario  receives  the  waters  of  the  Niagara,  so  famous  for  its  falls,  and  discharges  itself 
into  the  Atlantic  by  the  river  St.  Lawrence. 

(6)  La  plupart  de  ces  lies  ne  sont  en  effet  que  des  pointes  de  mentagnes  :  et  la  mer,  qui 
est  au-deia,  est  une  vraie  mer  Mediterranee.  —  Bujffbn. 

(7)  The  dominion  of  a  bad  angel  over  an  unknown  sea,  infestandole  con  torbellinos  y 
tempestades,  and  his  flight  before  a  Christian  hero,  are  described  in  glowing  language  by 
Ovalle.  —  Hist,  de  Chile.  IV.  8. 

(8)  Alluding  to  the  oracles  of  the  islanders,  so  soon  to  become  silent ;  and  particularly 
to  a  prophecy,  delivered  down  from  their  ancestors,  and  sung  with  loud  lamentations 
(Petr.  Martyr,  dec.  3,  lib.  7)  at  their  solemn  festivals  (Herrera,  I.  iii.  4),  that  the  coun 
try  would  be  laid  waste  on  the  arrival  of  strangers,  completely  clad,  from  a  region  near 
the  rising  of  the  sun.  —  Ibid.  II.  5,  2.    It  is  said  that  Cazziva,  a  great  Cacique,  after  long 
fasting  and  many  ablutions,  had  an  interview  with  one  of  the  Zemi,  who  announced  to  him 
this  terrible  event  (Hist.  c.  62),  as  the  oracles  of  Latona,  according  to  Herodotus  (II.  152), 
predicted  the  overthrow  of  the  eleven  kings  in  Egypt,  on  the  appearance  of  men  of  brass, 
risen  out  of  the  sea. 

Nor  did  this  prophecy  exist  among  the  islanders  alone.  It  influenced  the  councils  of 
Montezuma,  and  extended  almost  universally  over  the  forests  of  America.  —  Cortes. 
Herrera.  Gomara.  "The  demons,  whom  they  worshipped,"  says  Acosta,  "in  this 
instance  told  them  the  truth." 

(9)  These  scattered  fragments  may  be  compared  to  shreds  of  old  arras,  or  reflections 
from  a  river  broken  and  confused  by  the  oar  ;  and  now  and  then  perhaps  the  imagination 
of  the  reader  may  supply  more  than  is  lost.     Si  qua  latent,  meliora  putat.     "  It  is  remark 
able,"  says  the  elder  Pliny,  "that  the  Iris  of  Aristides,  the  Tyndarides  of  Nicomachus, 
and  the  Venus  .of  Apelles,  are  held  in  higher  admiration  than  their  finished  works." 
And  is  it  not  so  in  almost  everything  ? 

Call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story-  of  Cambuscan  bold. 


152  NOTES. 


CANTO  IV. 

(1)  Light  vessels,  formerly  used  by  the  Spaniards  and  Portuguese. 

C2)  In  the  Lusiad,  to  beguile  the  heavy  hours  at  sea,  Veloso  relates  to  his  companions 
of  the  second  watch  the  story  of  the  Twelve  Knights.  —  L.  vi. 

(3)  Among  those  who  went  with  Columbus  were  many  adventurers,  and  gentlemen  of 
the  court.    Primero  was  the  game  then  in  fa&hion.  —  See  Fega,  p.  2,  lib.  iii.  c.  9. 

(4)  Many  such  appellations  occur  in  Bernal  Diaz,  c.  204. 


CANTO  V. 

(1)  Many  sighed  and  wept;  and  every  hour  seemed  a  year,  says  Herrera. — I.  i.  9 
and  10. 

(2)  A  luminous  appearance,  of  good  omen. 

(3)  His  public  procession  to  the  convent  of  La  Rabida  on  the  day  before  he  set  sail.    It 
•was  there  that  his  sons  had  received  their  education  ;  and  he  himself  appears  to  have 
passed  some  time  there,  the  venerable  guardian,  Juan  Perez  de  Marchena,  being  his  zeal 
ous  and  affectionate  friend.    The  ceremonies  of  his  departure  and  return  are  represented 
in  many  of  the  fresco-paintings  in  the  palaces  of  Genoa. 

(4)  "  But  I  was  most  afflicted  when  I  thought  of  my  two  sons,  whom  I  had  left  behind 
me  in  a  strange  country    ....    before  I  had  done,  or,  at  least,  could  be  known  to 
have  done,  anything  which  might  incline  your  highnesses  to  remember  them.     And  though 
I  consoled  myself  with  the  reflection  that   our  Lord   would  not  suffer  so  earnest  an 
endeavor  for  the  exaltation  of  his  church  to  come  to  nothing,  yet  I  considered  that,  on 
account  of  my  unworthiness,"  &c.  —  Hist.  c.  37. 

(5)  Gonsalvo,  or,  as  he  is  called  in  Castilian,  Gonzalo  Hernandez  de  Cordova  ;  already 
known  by  the  name  of  The  Great  Captain.     Granada  surrendered  on  the  second  of  Janu 
ary,  1492.     Columbus  set  sail  on  the  third  of  August  following. 

(6)  Probably  a  soldier  of  fortune.    There  were  more  than  one  of  the  name  on  board. 


CANTO  VI. 

(1)  Not  but  that  in  the  profession  of  arms  there  are  at  all  times  many  noble  natures. 
Let  a  soldier  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  speak  for  those  who  had  commanded  under  him,  those 
whom  he  calls  "  the  chief  men  of  action." 

"  Now  that  I  have  tried  them,  I  would  choose  them  for  friends,  if  I  had  them  not ; 
before  I  had  tried  them,  God  and  his  providence  chose  them  for  me.  I  love  them  for 
mine  own  sake  ;  for  I  find  sweetness  in  their  conversation,  strong  assistance  in  their  em 
ployments  with  me,  and  happiness  in  their  friendship.  I  love  them  for  their  virtue's  sake, 


NOTES.  153 


and  for  their  greatness  of  mind  (for  little  minds,  though  never  so  fuM  of  virtue,  can  be  but 
a  little  virtuous),  and  for  their  great  understanding;  for  to  undei  stand  little  things,  or 
things  not  of  use,  is  little  better  than  to  understand  nothing  at  all.  I  love  them  for  their 
affections  ;  for  self-loving  men  love  ease,  pleasure  and  profit ;  but  they  that  love  pains, 
danger  and  fame,  show  that  they  love  public  profit  more  than  themselves.  I  love  them 
for  my  country's  sake  ;  for  they  are  England's  best  armor  of  defence,  and  weapons  of 
offence.  If  we  may  have  peace,  they  have  purchased  it  ;  if  we  must  have  war,  they  must 
manage  it,"  &c. 

(2)  Hist.  c.  3. 

(3)  The  Cross  of  the  South  ;  "  una  Croce  maravigliosa,  e  di  tanta  bellezza,"  says  Andrea 
Corsali,  a  Florentine,  writing  to  Giuliano  of  Medicis  in  1515,  "  che  non  mi  pare  ad  alcuno 
segno  celeste  doverla  comparare.    E  s'io  non  mi  inganno,  credo  che  sia  questo  il  crusero 
di  che  Dante  par!6  nel  principio  del  Purgatorio  con  spirito  profetico,  dicendo, 

I'mi  volsi  a  man  destra,  e  posi  ments 
All'  altro  polo,  e  vidi  quattro  stelle,"  &c. 

It  is  still  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  the  Spaniards.  "  U n  sentiment  religieux  les  attache  a 
une  constellation  dont  la  forme  leur  rappelle  ce  signe  de  la  foi  plante  par  leurs  ancetres 
dans  les  deserts  du  nouveau  monde." 

(4)  Le  Condor  est  lem&ne  oiseau  que  le  Roc  des  Orientaux.  —  Euffon.     "By  the  Peru 
vians,"  says  Yega,  "  he  was  anciently  worshipped  }  and  there  were  those  who  claimed 
their  descent  from  him."    In  these  degenerate  days  he  still  ranks  above  the  eagle. 

(5)  As  the  Roc  of  the  east  is  said  to  have  carried  off  the  elephant.  —  See  Marco  Polo. 
Axalhua,  or  the  Emperor,  is  the  name  in  the  Mexican  language  for  the  great  serpent  of 
America. 

(6)  Tierra  del  Fuego. 

(7)  Northern  extremity  of  the  New  World.  —  See  Cook's  Last  Voyage. 

(8)  Mines  of  Chili ;  which  extend,  says  Ovalle,  to  the  Strait  of  Magellan.  —  I.  4. 

(9)  A  custom  not  peculiar  to  the  Western  Hemisphere.    The  Tunguses  of  Siberia  hang 
their  dead  on  trees  ;  "  parceque  la  terre  no  se  laisse  point  ouvrir."  —  M.  Pauw. 


CANTO  VII. 

(1)  "  Aquella  noche  triste."    The  night  on  which  Cortes  made  his  famous  retreat  from 
Mexico  through  the  street  of  Tlacopan  still  goes  by  the  name  of  LA  NOCHE  TKISTE.  — 
Hamboldt. 

(2)  Pizarro  used  to  dress  in  this  fashion  ;  after  Gonsalvo,  whom  he  had  served  under  in 
Italy. 

(3)  A  species  of  Bat  in  South  America  ;  which  refreshes  by  the  gentle  agitation  of  its 
wings,  while  it  sucks  the  blood  of  the  sleeper,  turning  his  sleep  into  death. 

(4) Now  one, 

Now  other,  as  their  shape  served  best  his  end. 


154  NOTES. 


Undoubtedly,  says  Herrera,  the  Infernal  Spirit  assumed  various  shapes  in  that  region  of 
the  world. 

(5)  Many  a  modern  reader  will  exclaim,  in  the  language  of  Pococurante,  "  Quelle  triste 
extravagance  !  "  Let  a  great  theologian  of  that  day,  a  monk  of  the  Augustine  order,  be 
consulted  on  the  subject.  "  Corpus  ille  perimere  vel  jugulare  potest ;  nee  id  modd, 
verum  et  animam  ita  urgere,  et  in  angustum  coarctare  novit,  ut  in  momento  quoque  illi 
excedendum  sit."  —  Lutherus,  De  Missa  Privata. 

The  lloman  ritual  requires  three  signs  of  possession. 

(6)  — magnum  si  pectore  possit 

Excussisse  deum. 

(7)  Euripides  in  Alcest,  v.  255. 

(8)  Voci  alte  e  fioche,  e  suon  di  man  con  elle.  —  Dante. 

(9)  The  same  language  had  been  addressed  to  Isabella.  —  Hist.  c.  15. 

(10)  His  miraculous  escape,  in  early  life,  during  a  sea-fight  off  the  coast  of  Portugal.  — 
Hist.  c.  5. 

(11)  Nudo  nocchier,  promettitor  di  regni ! 

By  the  Genoese  and  the  Spaniards  he  was  regarded  as  a  man  resolved  on  "  a  wild  dedica 
tion  of  himself  to  unpathed  waters,  undreamed  shores  ;  "  and  the  court  of  Portugal  en 
deavored  to  rob  him  of  the  glory  of  his  enterprise,  by  secretly  dispatching  a  vessel  in  the 
course  which  he  had  pointed  out.  "  Lorsqu'il  avait  promis  un  nouvel  h^misplie're,"  says 
Voltaire,  "  on  lui  avait  soutenu  que  cet  hemisphere  ne  pouvait  exister  5  et  quand  il  1'eut 
d6couvert,  on  pretendit  qu'il  avait  ete  connu  depuis  long-temps." 

(12)  He  used  to  affirm  that  he  stood  in  need  of  God's  particular  assistance  ;  like  Moses, 
when  he  led  forth  the  people  of  Israel,  who  forbore  to  lay  violent  hands  upon  him.  be 
cause  of  the  miracles  which  God  wrought  by  his  means.     "  So,"  said  the  Admiral,  "did  it 
happen  to  me  on  that  voyage."  —  Hist.  c.  19.  —  "  And  so  easily,"  says  a  commentator, 
"  are  the  workings  of  the  Evil  one  overcome  by  the  power  of  God  !  " 

(13)  This  denunciation,  fulfilled  as  it  appears  to  be  in  the  eleventh  canto,  may  remind  the 
reader  of  the  Harpy's  in  Virgil.  —Mn.  III.  v.  247. 


CANTO  VIII. 

(1)  Ex  ligno  lucido  confectum,  et  arte  mir£  laboratum.  —  P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  5. 

(2)  The  Simoom. 

(3)  Salve,  regina.  — Herrera,  I.  i.  12.    It  was  the  usual  service,  and  always  sung  with 
great  solemnity.     "  I  remember  one  evening,"  says  Oviedo,  "  when  the  ship  was  in  full 
sail,  and  all  the  men  were  on  their  knees,  singing  Salve,  regina,"  &c.  —  Relacion  Som- 
maria.     The  hymn,  0  Sanctissima,  is  still  to  be  heard  after  sunset  along  the  shores  of 
Sicily,  and  its  effect  may  be  better  conceived  than  described. 

(4)  I  believe  that  he  was  chosen  for  this  great  service  ;  and  that,  because  he  was  to  be 
so  truly  an  apostle,  as  in  effect  he  proved  to  be,  therefore  was  his  origin  obscure  ;  that 


NOTES.  155 


therein  he  might  resemble  those  who  were  called  to  make  known  the  name  of  the  Lord 
from  the  seas  and  rivers,  and  not  from  courts  and  palaces.  And  I  believe  also,  that,  as  in 
most  of  his  doings  he  was  guarded  by  some  special  providence,  his  very  name  was  not 
without  some  mystery  ;  for  in  it  is  expressed  the  wonder  he  performed  ;  inasmuch  as  he 
conveyed  to  a  new  world  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  &c.  —  Hist.  c.  1. 

(5)  A  light  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  signifying  the  spiritual  light  that  he  came  to  spread 
there.  —  F.  Col.  c.  22.    Herrera,  I.  i.  12. 

(G)  Pedro  Gutierrez,  a  page  of  the  king's  chamber.    Rodrigo  Sanchez  of  Segovia,  Comp 
troller  of  the  Fleet. 


CANTO  IX. 

(1)  Signifying  to  the  Infernal  Powers  (all'  infierno  todo)  the  will  of  the  Most  High,  that 
they  should  renounce  a  world  over  which  they  had  tyrannized  for  so  many  ages.  —  Ovalle, 
IT.  6. 

(2)  "  This  country  excels  all  others,  as  far  as  the  day  surpasses  the  night  in  splendor. 
Nor  is  there  a  better  people  in  the  world.    They  love  their  neighbor  as  themselves  ;  their 
conversation  is  the  sweetest  imaginable,  their  faces  always  smiling  ;  and  so  gentle,  so 
affectionate  are  they,  that  I  swear  to  your  Highnesses,"  &c.  — Hist.  c.  30,  33. 

(3)  Dryades  formosissimas,  aut  nativas  fontium  nymphas  de  quibus  fabulatur  antiqui- 
tas,  se  vidisse  arbitrati  sunt.  —  P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  lib.  v. 

And  an  eminent  painter  of  the  present  day,  when  he  first  saw  the  Apollo  of  the  Belvi- 
dere,  was  struck  with  its  resemblance  to  an  American  warrior.  —  West's  Discourses  in 
the  Royal  Academy,  1794. 

(4)  So,  in  like  manner,  when  Cortes  and  his  companions  appeared  at  the  gates  of  Mexico, 
the  young  exclaimed,  "  They  are  Gods  !  "  while  the  old  shook  their  heads,  saying,  "  They 
are  those  of  whom  the  prophets  spake  ;  and  they  are  come  to  reign  over  us ! "  — 
Herrera. 

(5)  "  The  Cacique  came  to  the  shore  in  a  sort  of  palanquin,  attended  by  his  ancient 
men.    The  gifts  which  he  received  from  me  were  afterwards   carried  before   him."  — 
Hist.  c.  32. 

(6)  The  ring  of  Gyges,  the  lamp  of  Aladdin,  and  the  horse  of  the  Tartar  king. 

(")  For  the  effects  of  the  telescope  and  the  mirror  on  an  uncultivated  mind,  see  Wallis* 
Voyage  round  the  World,  c.  2  and  6. 


CANTO  X. 

(1)  JEtas  est  fllis  aurea.    Apertis  vivunt  hortis.  —  P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  3. 

(2)  The  wild  cotton-tree,  often  mentioned  in  history.      "  Cortes,"  says  Bernal  Diaz, 
"  took  possession  of  the  country  in  the  following  manner  :  Drawing  his  sword,  he  gave 
three  cuts  with  it  into  a  great  Ceiba,  and  said  — ." 


156  NOTES. 


(3)  The  parrot,  as  described  by  Aristotle.— Hist.  Animal,  viii.  12. 

(4)  Here  are  birds  so  small,  says  Herrera,  that,  though  they  are  birds,  they  are  taken 
for  bees  or  butterflies. 

(5)  The  Humming  bird.    Kakopit  (florum  regulus)  is  the  name  of  an  Indian  bird, 
referred  to  this  class  by  Seba. 

(<>)  There  also  was  heard  the  wild  cry  of  the  Flamingo. 

"What  clarion  winds  along  the  yellow  sands  ? 
Far  in  the  deep  the  giant-fisher  stands, 
Folding  his  wings  of  flame. 

(7)  II  sert  apr£s  sa  mort  a  parer  les  jeunes  Indiennes,  qui  portent  en  pendans  d'oreilles 
deux  de  ces  charmans  oiseaux.  —  Buff  on. 

(8)  According  to  an  ancient  tradition.  —  See  Oviedo,  Vega,  Herrera,  &c.    Not  many 
years  afterwards  a  Spaniard  of  distinction  wandered  everywhere  in  search  of  it ;  and 
no  wonder,  as  Robertson  observes,  when  Columbus  himself  could  imagine  that  he  had 
found  the  seat  of  Paradise. 


CANTO  XL 
0)  P.  Martyr,  dec.  i. 

(2)  They  believed  that  the  souls  of  good  men  were  conveyed  to  a  pleasant  valley,  abound 
ing  in  guavas  and  other  delicious  fruits.  —  Herrera,  I.  iii.  3.    Hist,  del  Almirante, 
c.  62. 

(3)  " The  dead  walk  abroad  at  night,  and  feast  with  the  living"  (F.  Columbus,  c.  G2)  -, 
and  "  eat  of  the  fruit  called  Guannaba."  —  P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  9. 

(4)  War  reverses  the  order  of  nature.    In  time  of  peace,  says  Herodotus,  the  sons  bury 
their  fathers  ;  in  time  of  war,  the  fathers  bury  their  sons  '    But  the  gods  have  willed  it  so. 
—I.  87. 

(•">)  An  ancient  Cacique,  in  his  lifetime  and  after  his  death,  employed  by  the  Zemi  to 
alarm  his  people.  —See  Hist.  c.  62. 

(6)  The  author  is  speaking  in  his  inspired  character.    Hidden  things  are  revealed  to 
him,  and  placed  before  his  mind  as  if  they  were  present. 

(7)  Nor  could  they  (the  Powers  of  Darkness)  have  more  effectually  prevented  the  pro 
gress  of  the  faith,  than  by  desolating  the  New  World  ;  by  burying  nations  alive  in  mines, 
or  consigning  them,  in  all  their  errors,  to  the  sword.  —  Relacion  de  B.  de  las  Casas. 

(8)  Not  man  alone,  but  many  other  animals,  became  extinct  there. 

(9)  P.  Martyr,  dec.  iii.  c  7. 

(10)  Rocheforte,  c.  xx. 


NOTES.  157 


CANTO  XII. 

(1)  For  a  summary  of  his  life  and  character,  see  "  An  Account  of  the  European  Settle 
ments."  —  P.  I.  c.  8.    Of  him  it  might  have  been  said,  as  it  was  afterwards  said  of  Bacon, 
and  a  nobler  tribute  there  could  not  be  :  "  In  his  adversity  I  ever  prayed  that  God  would 
give  him  strength,  for  greatness  he  could  not  want.    Neither  could  I  condole  for  him  in  a 
word  or  syllable,  as  knowing  no  accident  could  do  harm  to  virtue,  but  rather  help  to  make 
it  manifest."  —  B.  Jonson. 

(2)  It  is  remarkable  that  these  phenomena  still  remain  among  the  mysteries  of  nature. 

(3)  E  disubito  parve  giorno  a  giorno 
Essere  aggiunto,  come  quei,  che  puote, 
Avesse'l  Ciel  d'un'  altro  Sole  adorno. 

Paradiso,  1.  61. 

(4)  Te  tua  fata  docebo.  —  Virg. 

Saprai  di  tua  vita  il  viaggio.  —  Dante. 

(5)  P.  Martyr,  Epist.  133,  152. 

(6)  When  he  entered  the  Tagus,  all  the  seamen  ran  from  all   parts  to  behold,  as  it  were 
some  wonder,  a  ship  that  had  escaped  so  terrible  a  storm.  — Hist.  c.  40. 

(?)  I  wrote  on  a  parchment  that  I  had  discovered  what  I  had  promised  ;  and,  having 
put  it  into  a  cask,  I  threw  it  into  the  sea.  —  Ibid.  c.  37. 

(8)  See  the  Eumenides  of  Mschylus,  v.  305,  &c. 

(9)  Balboa  immediately  concluded  it  to  be  the  ocean  for  which  Columbus  had  searched 
in  vain  ;  and  when,  at  length,  after  a  toilsome  march  among  the  mountains,  his  guides 
pointed  out  to  him  the  summit  from  which  it  might  be  seen,  he  commanded  his  men  to 
halt,  and  went  up  alone.  — Herrera,  I.  x.  1. 

(10)  I  always  saw  them  in  his  room,  and  he  ordered  them  to  be  buried  with  his  body.  — . 
Hist.  c.  86. 

(11)  His  person,  says  Herrera,  had  an  air  of  grandeur.   His  hair,  from  many  hardships, 
had  long  been  gray.     In  him  you  saw  a  man  of  an  unconquerable  courage  and  high 
thoughts  ;  patient  of  wrongs,  calm  in  adversity,  ever  trusting  in  God  ;  and,  had  he  lived 
in  ancient  times,  statues  and  temples  would  have  been  erected  to  him  without  number, 
and  his  name  would  have  been  placed  among  the  stars. 

(12)  See  the  Eumenides  of^Eschylus,  v.  246.    Agamemnon  ofMschylus,  v.  82. 

(13)  "  There  go  the   sons  of  him  who  discovered  those  fatal  countries,"  &c.  —  Hist. 
c.  85. 

(14)  One  of  these,  on  account  of  his  extraordinary  sagacity  and  fierceness,  received  the 
full  allowance  of  a  soldier.     His  name  was  Berezillo. 

(15)  With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  kingdoms  as  full  of  people  as  hives  are  full  of  bees  ;  and 
now  where  are  they  ?  —  Las  Casas. 

(16)  No  unusual  effect  of  an  exuberant  vegetation.     "  The  air  was  so  vitiated,"  says  an 
African  traveller,  "  that  our  torches  burnt  dim,  and  seemed  ready  to  be  extinguished  ; 
and  even  the  human  voice  lost  its  natural  tone." 

14 


158  NOTES. 


(17)  See  Washington's  Farewell  Address  to  his  fellow-citizens. 

(18)  "  There  are  those  alive,"  said  an  illustrious  orator,  "  whose  memory  might  touch 
the  two  extremities.    Lord  Bathurst,  in  1704,  was  of  an  age  to  comprehend  such  things  5 
and,  if  his  angel  had  then  drawn  up  the  curtain,  and,  while  he  was  gazing  with  admira 
tion,  had  pointed  out  to  him  a  speck,  and  had  told  him,  '  Young  man,  there  is  America, 
which,  at  this  day,  serves  for  little  more  than  to  amuse  you  with  stories  of  savage  men  and 
uncouth  manners  ;  yet  shall,  before  you  taste  of  death,'  "  &c.  —  Burke  in  1775. 

(19)  How  simple  were  the  manners  of  the  early  colonists  !     The  first  ripening  of  any 
European  fruit  was  distinguished  by  a  family  festival.    Garcilasso  de  la  Vega  relates  how 
his  dear  father,  the  valorous  Andres,  collected  together  in  his  chamber  seven  or  eight 
gentlemen  to  share  with  him  three  asparaguses,  the  first  that  ever  grew  on  the  table-land 
of  Cusco.     When  the  operation  of  dressing  them  was  over  (and  it  is  minutely  described) 
he  distributed  the  two  largest  among  his  friends  ;  begging  that  the  company  would  not 
take  it  ill  if  he  reserved  the  third  for  himself,  as  it  was  a  thing  from  Spain. 

North  America  became  instantly  an  asylum  for  the  oppressed ;  Huguenots,  and  Catholics, 
and  sects  of  every  name  and  country.  Such  were  the  first  settlers  in  Carolina  and  Mary 
land,  Pennsylvania  and  New  England.  Nor  is  South  America  altogether  without  a  claim 
to  the  title.  Even  now,  while  I  am  writing,  the  ancient  house  of  Braganza  is  on  its  pas 
sage  across  the  Atlantic, 

Cum  sociis,  natoque,  Penatibus,  et  magnis  dis. 

(20)  Je  me  transporte  quelquefois  au  deld  d'un  sie"cle.    J'y  vois  le  bonheur  &  cote  de 
1'industrie,  la  douce  tolerance  remplaijant  la  farouche  inquisition ;  j'y  vois  un  jour  de 
ffite  ;  Peruviens,  Mexicains,  Americains  libres,  Francois  s'embrassant  comme  des  fibres, 
et  benissant  le  r£gne  de  la  liberte",  qui  doit  amener  partout  une  harmonic  universelle. 
Mais  les  mines,  les  esclaves,  que  deviendront-ils  ?    Les  mines  se  fermeront ;  les  esclaves 
seront  les  freTes  de  leurs  maitres.  —  Brissot. 

There  is  a  prophetic  stanza,  written  a  century  ago  by  Bp.  Berkeley,  which  I  must  quote, 
though  I  may  suffer  by  the  comparison  : 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way. 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day. 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 

(21)  See  Paradise  Lost,  X. 

(22)  Cortes.    A  pdne  put-il  obtenir  audience  de  Charles-Quint :  un  jour  il  fendit  la 
presse  qui  entourait  le  coche  de  Tempereur,  et  monta  sur  1'etrier  de  la  portiere.     Charles 
demanda  quel  etait  cet  homme  ;  "  C'est,"  r^pondit  Cortes,  "  celui  qui  vous  a  donne  plus 
d'^tats  que  vos  pe"res  ne  vous  ont  laisse  de  villes."  —  Voltaire. 

(17)  "Almost  all,"  says  Las  Casas,  "have  perished.  The  innocent  blood  which  they 
had  shed  cried  aloud  for  vengeance ;  the  sighs,  the  tears  of  so  many  victims,  went  up 
before  God." 

(24)  L'Espagne  a  fait  comme  ce  roi  insense'  qui  demanda  que  tout  ce  qu'il  toucheroit  se 
convertit  en  or,  et  qui  fut  oblige'  de  revenir  aux  dieux  pour  les  prier  de  finir  sa  misere.  — 
Montesquieu. 


NOTES.  159 


(1)  The  Convent  of  La  Rdbida. 


(2)  gee  Bernal  Diaz,  c.  203 ;  and  also  a  well-known  portrait  of  Cortes,  ascribed  to 
Titian.    Cortes  was  now  in  the  forty-third,  Pizarro  in  the  fiftieth  year  of  his  age. 

(3)  Augustin  Zaratt,  lib.  iv.  c.  9. 

(4)  An  interpolation. 

(5)  Late  Superior  of  the  House. 

(6)  In  the  chancel  of  the  cathedral  of  St.  Domingo. 

An  anachronism.    The  body  of  Columbus  was  not  yet  removed  from  Seville. 
It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  point  out  another  in  the  Ninth  Canto.    The  telescope  was 
not  then  in  use  •,  though  described  long  before,  with  great  accuracy,  by  Roger  Bacon. 

(7)  The  words  of  the  epitaph.    "  A  Castilia  y  a  Leon  nuevo  Mundo  dio  Colon." 

(8)  Mexico. 

(9)  Afterwards  the  arms  of  Cortes  and  his  descendants. 

(10)  Fernandez,  lib.  iL  c.  63. 

(11)  B.  Diaz,  c.  203. 

(12)  "  After  the  death  of  Guatimotzin,"  says  B.  Diaz,  "  he  became  gloomy  and  restless  ; 
rising  continually  from  his  bed,  and  wandering  about  in  the  dark."     "  Nothing  prospered 
with  him ;  and  it  was  ascribed  to  the  curses  he  was  loaded  with." 


JACdUELINE 

1813. 


JACQUELINE. 


'T  WAS  Autumn  ;  through  Provence  had  ceased 

The  vintage,  and  the  vintage-feast. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  the  hill, 

The  moon  was  up,  and  all  was  still, 

And  from  the  convent's  neighboring  tower 

The  clock  had  tolled  the  midnight-hour. 

When  Jacqueline  came  forth  alone, 

Her  kerchief  o'er  her  tresses  thrown  ; 

A  guilty  thing  and  full  of  fears, 

Yet,  ah  !  how  lovely  in  her  tears  ! 

She  starts,  and  what  has  caught  her  eye  ? 

What  —  but  her  shadow  gliding  by  ? 

She  stops,  she  pants  ;  with  lips  apart 

She  listens  —  to  her  beating  heart ! 

Then,  through  the  scanty  orchard  stealing, 

The  clustering  boughs  her  track  concealing, 

She  flies,  nor  casts  a  thought  behind, 

But  gives  her  terrors  to  the  wind ; 

Flies  from  her  home,  the  humble  sphere 

Of  all  her  joys  and  sorrows  here, 

Her  father's  house  of  mountain-stone, 

And  by  a  mountain- vine  o'ergrown. 


164  JACQUELINE. 

At  such  an  hour  in  such  a  night, 
So  calm,  so  clear,  so  heavenly  bright, 
Who  would  have  seen,  and  not  confessed 
It  looked  as  all  within  were  blest  ? 
What  will  not  woman,  when  she  loves  ? 
Yet  lost,  alas  !  who  can  restore  her  ?  — 
She  lifts  the  latch,  the  wicket  moves  ; 
And  now  the  world  is  all  before  her. 

Up  rose  St.  Pierre,  when  morning  shone  ; 

—  And  Jacqueline,  his  child,  was  gone  ! 

0,  what  the  maddening  thought  that  came  ? 

Dishonor  coupled  with  his  name  ! 

By  Conde  at  Rocroy  he  stood ; 

By  Turenne,  when  the  Rhine  ran  blood. 

Two  banners  of  Castile  he  gave 

Aloft  in  Notre  Dame  to  wave  • 

Nor  did  thy  cross,  St.  Louis,  rest 

Upon  a  purer,  nobler  breast. 

He  slung  his  old  sword  by  his  side, 

And  snatched  his  staff  and  rushed  to  save ; 

Then  sunk  —  and  on  his  threshold  cried, 

"0,  lay  me  in  my  grave  ! 

—  Constance  !  Claudine  !  where  were  ye  then  ? 
But  stand  not  there.     Away  !  away  ! 

Thou,  Frederic,  by  thy  father  stay. 
Though  old,  and  now  forgot  of  men, 
Both  must  not  leave  him  in  a  day." 
Then,  and  he  shook  his  hoary  head, 
"  Unhappy  in  thy  youth  !  "  he  said. 
"  Call  as  thou  wilt,  thou  call'st  in  vain  ; 
No  voice  sends  back  thy  name  again. 


JACQUELINE.  1C5 

To  mourn  is  all  thou  hast  to  do ; 
Thy  playmate  lost,  and  teacher  too." 

And  who  but  she  could  soothe  the  boy, 
Or  turn  his  tears  to  tears  of  joy  ? 
Long  had  she  kissed  him  as  he  slept, 
Long  o'er  his  pillow  hung  and  wept ; 
And,  as  she  passed  her  father's  door. 
She  stood  as  she  would  stir  no  more. 
But  she  is  gone,  and  gone  forever  ! 
No,  never  shall  they  clasp  her  —  never  ! 
They  sit  and  listen  to  their  fears  ; 
And  he,  who  through  the  breach  had  led 
Over  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Shakes  if  a  cricket's  cry  he  hears  ! 

0  !  she  was  good  as  she  was  fair. 
None  —  none  on  earth  above  her  ! 
As  pure  in  thought  as  angels  are, 
To  know  her  was  to  love  her. 
When  little,  and  her  eyes,  her  voice, 
Her  every  gesture,  said  "  rejoice," 
Her  coming  was  a  gladness  ; 
And,  as  she  grew,  her  modest  grace, 
Her  downcast  look,  't  was  heaven  to  trace, 
When,  shading  with  her  hand  her  face, 
She  half  inclined  to  sadness. 
Her  voice,  whate'er  she  said,  enchanted ; 
Like  music  to  the  heart  it  went. 
And  her  dark  eyes — how  eloquent ! 
Ask  what  they  would,  't  was  granted. 
Her  father  loved  her  as  his  fame  ; 
—  And  Bayard's  self  had  done  the  same  ! 


166  JACQUELINE. 

Soon  as  the  sun  the  glittering  pane 
On  the  red  floor  in  diamonds  threw, 
His  songs  she  sung  and  sung  again. 
Till  the  last  light  withdrew. 
Every  day,  and  all  day  long, 
He  mused  or  slumbered  to  a  song. 
But  she  is  dead  to  him,  to  all  ! 
Her  lute  hangs  silent  on  the  wall ; 
And  on  the  stairs,  and  at  the  door, 
Her  fairy-step  is  heard  no  more  ! 
At  every  meal  an  empty  chair 
Tells  him  that  she  is  not  there  ; 
She,  who  would  lead  him  where  he  went, 
Charm  with  her  converse  while  he  leant ; 
Or,  hovering,  every  wish  prevent ; 
At  eve  light  up  the  chimney-nook, 
Lay  there  his  glass  within  his  book ; 
And  that  small  chest  of  curious  mould 
(Queen  Mab's,  perchance,  in  days  of  old), 
Tusk  of  elephant  and  gold  ; 
Which,  when  a  tale  is  long,  dispenses 
Its  fragrant  dust  to  drowsy  senses. 
In  her  who  mourned  not,  when  they  missed  her, 
The  old  a  child,  the  young  a  sister  1 
No  more  the  orphan  runs  to  take 
From  her  loved  hand  the  barley-cake. 
No  more  the  matron  in  the  school 
Expects  her  in  the  hour  of  rule, 
To  sit  amid  the  elfin  brood, 
Praising  the  busy  and  the  good. 
The  widow  trims  her  hearth  in  vain. 
She  comes  not  —  nor  will  come  again. 


JACQUELINE.  167 

Not  now,  his  little  lesson  done, 

With  Frederic  blowing  bubbles  in  the  sun ; 

Nor  spinning  by  the  fountain  side 

(Some  story  of  the  days  of  old, 

Barbe  Bleue  or  Chaperon  Rouge  half-told 

To  him  who  would  not  be  denied)  ; 

Not  now,  to  while  an  hour  away, 

Gone  to  the  falls  in  Valombre, 

Where  'tis  night  at  noon  of  day  ; 

Nor  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood, 

To  all  but  her  a  solitude, 

Where  once  a  wild  deer,  wild  no  more, 

Her  chaplet  on  his  antlers  wore, 

And  at  her  bidding  stood. 


II. 

THE  day  was  in  the  golden  west ; 

And,  curtained  close  by  leaf  and  flower, 

The  doves  had  cooed  themselves  to  rest 

In  Jacqueline's  deserted  bower  ; 

The  doves  —  that  still  would  at  her  casement  peck. 

And  in  her  walks  had  ever  fluttered  round 

With  purple  feet  and  shining  neck, 

True  as  the  echo  to  the  sound. 

That  casement,  underneath  the  trees, 

Half  open  to  the  western  breeze, 

Looked  down,  enchanting  Garonnelle, 

Thy  wild  and  mulberry-shaded  dell, 

Round  which  the  Alps  of  Piedmont  rose. 

The  blush  of  sunset  on  their  snows  : 


168  JACQUELINE. 

While,  blithe  as  lark  on  summer-morn, 
When  green  and  yellow  waves  the  corn, 
When  harebells  blow  in  every  grove, 
And  thrushes  sing  "  I  love  !  I  love  !  "  * 
Within  (so  soon  the  early  rain 
Scatters,  and  't  is  fair  again  ; 
Though  many  a  drop  may  yet  be  seen 
To  tell  us  where  a  cloud  has  been)  — 
Within  lay  Frederick,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Building  castles  on  the  floor, 
And  feigning,  as  they  grew  in  size, 
New  troubles  and  new  dangers ; 
With  dimpled  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes, 
As  he  and  fear  were  strangers. 

St.  Pierre  sat  by,  nor  saw  nor  smiled. 
His  eyes  were  on  his  loved  Montaigne ; 
But  every  leaf  was  turned  in  vain. 
For  in  that  hour  remorse  he  felt, 
And  his  heart  told  him  he  had  dealt 
Unkindly  with  his  child. 
A  father  may  a  while  refuse ; 
But  who  can  for  another  choose  ? 
When  her  young  blushes  had  revealed 
The  secret  from  herself  concealed, 
Why  promise  what  her  tears  denied, 
That  she  should  be  De  Courcy's  bride  ? 
—  Wouldst  thou,  presumptuous  as  thou  art, 
O'er  Nature  play  the  tyrant's  part, 
And  with  the  hand  compel  the  heart  ? 
0  rather,  rather  hope  to  bind 
The  ocean- wave,  the  mountain- wind ; 

*  Cantando  "  lo  amo  !  lo  arno  !"  —  TASSO. 


JACQUELINE. 


Or,  fix  thy  foot  upon  the  ground 
To  stop  the  planet  rolling  round. 

The  light  was  on  his  face ;  and  there 
You  might  have  seen  the  passions  driven  — 
Resentment,  Pity,  Hope,  Despair  — 
Like  clouds  across  the  face  of  Heaven. 
Now  he  sighed  heavily  ;  and  now, 
His  hand  withdrawing  from  his  brow, 
He  shut  the  volume  with  a  frown, 
To  walk  his  troubled  spirit  down : 
—  When  (faithful  as  that  dog  of  yore  * 
Who  wagged  his  tail  and  could  no  more) 
Manchon,  who  long  had  snuffed  the  ground, 
And  sought  and  sought,  but  never  found, 
Leapt  up  and  to  the  casement  flew, 
And  looked  and  barked,  and  vanished  through. 
"  'T  is  Jacqueline  !     'T  is  Jacqueline  !  " 
Her  little  brother  laughing  cried. 
"  I  know  her  by  her  kirtle  green, 
She  comes  along  the  mountain-side  ; 
Now  turning  by  the  traveller's  seat, — 
Now  resting  in  the  hermit's  cave, — 
Now  kneeling,  where  the  pathways  meet, 
To  the  cross  on  the  stranger's  grave. 
And,  by  the  soldier's  cloak,  I  know 
(There,  there  along  the  ridge  they  go) 
D'Arcy,  so  gentle  and  so  brave  ! 
Look  up  —  why  will  you  not  ?  "  he  cries, 
His  rosy  hands  before  his  eyes  ; 
For  on  that  incense-breathing  eve 
The  sun  shone  out,  as  loth  to  leave. 

*  Argus. 

15 


170  JACQUELINE. 

"  See  —  to  the  rugged  rock  she  clings  ! 
She  calls,  she  faints,  and  D'Arcy  springs ; 
D'Arcy.  so  dear  to  us,  to  all ; 
Who,  for  you  told  me  on  your  knee, 
When  in  the  fight  he  saw  you  fall, 
Saved  you  for  Jacqueline  and  me  !  " 

And  true  it  was  !     And  true  the  tale ! 
When  did  she  sue  and  not  prevail  ? 
Five  years  before  —  it  was  the  night 
That  on  the  village-green  they  parted, 
The  lilied  banners  streaming  bright 
O'er  maids  and  mothers  broken-hearted  ; 
The  drum  —  it  drowned  the  last  adieu, 
When  D'Arcy  from  the  crowd  she  drew. 
' '  One  charge  I  have,  and  one  alone, 
Nor  that  refuse  to  take, 
My  father  —  if  not  for  his  own, 
0,  for  his  daughter's  sake  !  " 
Inly  he  vowed — 't  was  all  he  could  ; 
And  went  and  sealed  it  with  his  blood. 

Nor  can  ye  wonder.     When  a  child, 
And  in  her  playfulness  she  smiled, 
Up  many  a  ladder-path*  he  guided 
Where  meteor-like  the  chamois  glided, 
Through  many  a  misty  grove. 
They  loved  —  but  under  Friendship's  name; 
And  Reason,  Virtue  fanned  the  flame, 
Till  in  their  houses  Discord  came, 
And  't  was  a  crime  to  love. 

*  Called  in  the  language  of  the  country  Pas-de-VEchelh. 


JACQUELINE.  171 

Then  what  was  Jacqueline  to  do  ? 
Her  father's  angry  hours  she  knew, 
And  when  to  soothe,  and  when  persuade  j 
But  now  her  path  De  Courcy  crossed, 
Led  by  his  falcon  through  the  glade  — 
He  turned,  beheld,  admired  the  maid ; 
And  all  her  little  arts  were  lost ! 
De  Courcy,  Lord  of  Argentiere  ! 
Thy  poverty,  thy  pride,  St.  Pierre, 
Thy  thirst  for  vengeance,  sought  the  snare. 
The  day  was  named,  the  guests  invited ; 
The  bridegroom,  at  the  gate,  alighted  ; 
When  up  the  windings  of  the  dell 
A  pastoral  pipe  was  heard  to  swell, 
And,  lo  !  an  humble  Piedmontese, 
Whose  music  might  a  lady  please, 
This  message  through  the  lattice  bore 
(She  listened,  and  her  trembling  frame 
Told  her  at  once  from  whom  it  came), 
"  0,  let  us  fly  —  to  part  no  more  !  " 


ill. 

THAT  morn  ('t  was  in  Ste.  Julienne's  cell, 
As  at  Ste.  Julienne's  sacred  well 
Their  dream  of  love  began) — 
That  morn,  ere  many  a  star  was  set. 
Their  hands  had  on  the  altar  met 
Before  the  holy  man. 


172  JACQUELINE. 

—  And  now,  her  strength,  her  courage  spent, 

And  more  than  half  a  penitent, 

She  comes  along  the  path  she  went. 

And  now  the  village  gleams  at  last ; 

The  woods,  the  golden  meadows  passed, 

Where,  when,  Toulouse,  thy  splendor  shone, 

The  Troubadour,  from  grove  to  grove, 

Chanting  some  roundelay  of  love, 

Would  wander  till  the  day  was  gone. 

"  All  will  be  well,  my  Jacqueline  ! 

0,  tremble  not  —  but  trust  in  me. 

The  good  are  better  made  by  ill, 

As  odors  crushed  are  sweeter  still ; 

And,  gloomy  as  thy  past  has  been, 

Bright  shall  thy  future  be  !  " 

So  saying,  through  the  fragrant  shade 

Gently  along  he  led  the  maid, 

While  Manchon  round  and  round  her  played : 

And,  as  that  silent  glen  they  leave, 

Where  by  the  spring  the  pitchers  stand, 

Where  glow-worms  light  their  little  lamps  at  eve, 

And  fairies  revel  as  in  fairy-land 

(When  Lubin  calls,  and  Blanche  steals  round, 

Her  finger  on  her  lip,  to  see  ; 

And  many  an  acorri-cup  is  found 

Under  the  greenwood  tree), 

From  every  cot  above,  below, 

They  gather  as  they  go  — 

Sabot,  and  coif,  and  collerette, 

The  housewife's  prayer,  the  grandame's  blessing  ! 

Girls  that  adjust  their  locks  of  jet, 

And  look  and  look  and  linger  yet, 

The  lovely  bride  caressing ; 


JACQUELINE.  178 

uaoes  that  had  learnt  to  lisp  her  name, 
And  heroes  he  had  led  to  fame. 

But  what  felt  D'Arcy,  when  at  length 
Her  father's  gate  was  open  flung  ? 
Ah  !  then  he  found  a  giant's  strength  ; 
For  round  him,  as  for  life,  she  clung  ! 
And  when,  her  fit  of  weeping  o'er, 
Onward  they  moved  a  little  space, 
And  saw  an  old  man  sitting  at  the  door, — 
Saw  his  wan  cheek,  and  sunken  eye 
That  seemed  to  gaze  on  vacancy, — 
Then,  at  the  sight  of  that  beloved  face. 
At  once  to  fall  upon  his  neck  she  flew ; 
But  —  not  encouraged  —  back  she  drew, 
And  trembling  stood  in  dread  suspense, 
Her  tears  her  only  eloquence  ! 
All,  all  —  the  while  —  an  awful  distance  keeping ; 
Save  D'Arcy,  who  nor  speaks  nor  stirs ; 
And  one,  his  little  hand  in  hers, 
Who  weeps  to  see  his  sister  weeping. 

Then  Jacqueline  the  silence  broke. 
She  clasped  her  father's  knees  and  spoke, 
Her  brother  kneeling  too  ; 
While  D'Arcy  as  before  looked  on, 
Though  from  his  manly  cheek  was  gone 
Its  natural  hue. 

' '  His  praises  from  your  lips  I  heard, 
Till  my  fond  heart  was  won ; 
And,  if  in  aught  his  sire  has  erred. 
0,  turn  not  from  the  son  !  — 
She,  whom  in  joy,  in  grief,  you  nursed  ; 
Who  climbed  and  called  you  father  first, 
15* 


174  JACQUELINE. 

By  that  dear  name  conjures  — 
On  her  you  thought  —  but  to  be  kind  ! 
When  looked  she  up,  but  you  inclined  ? 
These  things,  forever  in  her  mind, 
0,  are  they  gone  from  yours  ? 
Two  kneeling  at  your  feet  behold  ; 
One  —  one  how  young  !  —  nor  yet  the  other  old. 
0,  spurn  them  not  — nor  look  so  cold  !  — 
If  Jacqueline  be  cast  away, 
Her  bridal  be  her  dying  day. 
—  Well,  well  might  she  believe  in  you  ! 
She  listened,  and  she  found  it  true." 
He  shook  his  aged  locks  of  snow ; 
And  twice  he  turned,  and  rose  to  go. 
She  hung  ;  and  was  St.  Pierre  to  blame, 
If  tears  and  smiles  together  came  ? 
"  0,  no  —  begone  !    I  '11  hear  no  more." 
But,  as  he  spoke,  his  voice  relented. 
"  That  very  look  thy  mother  wore 
When  she  implored,  and  old  Le  Hoc  consented. 
True,  I  have  erred  and  will  atone  ; 
For  still  I  love  him  as  my  own. 
And  now,  in  my  hands,  yours  with  his  unite  ; 
A  father's  blessing  on  your  heads  alight ! 
.     .     .    Nor  let  the  least  be  sent  away. 
All  hearts  shall  sing  '  Adieu  to  sorrow  ! ' 
St.  Pierre  has  found  his  child  to-day ; 
And  old  and  young  shall  dance  to-morrow." 


Had  Louis*  then  before  the  gate  dismounted, 
Lost  in  the  chase  at  set  of  sun ; 

*  Louis  the  Fourteenth. 


JACQUELINE.  175 

Like  Henry  when  he  heard  recounted  * 

The  generous  deeds  himself  had  done 

(What  time  the  miller's  maid  Colette 

Sung,  while  he  supped,  her  chansonnette), 

Then  —  when  St.  Pierre  addressed  his  village-train, 

Then  had  the  monarch  with  a  sigh  confessed 

A  joy  by  him  unsought  and  unpossessed, 

—  Without  it  what  are  all  the  rest  ?  — 

To  love,  and  to  be  loved  again. 

*  Alluding  to  a  popular  story  related  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  of  France, 
similar  to  ours  of  "  The  King  and  Miller  of  Mansfield." 


HUMAN   LIFE 

1819. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 


Introduction.  Ringing  of  Bells  in  a  neighboring  Tillage  on  the  Birth  of  an  Heir. 
General  Reflections  on  Human  Life.  The  subject  proposed.  Childhood.  Youth.  Man 
hood.  Love.  Marriage.  Domestic  Happiness  and  Affliction.  War.  Peace.  Civil 
Dissension.  Retirement  from  Active  Life.  Old  Age  and  its  Enjoyments.  Conclusion. 


HUMAN    LIFE. 


THE  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky ; 

The  bees  have  hummed  their  noon-tide  harmony. 

Still  in  the  vale  the  village-bells  ring  round, 

Still  in  Llewellyn-hall  the  jests  resound  : 

For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 

Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  prayer, 

And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 

The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 

A  few  short  years  —  and  then  these  sounds  shall  hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale ; 
So  soon  the  child  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 
Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sirloin ; 
The  ale,  now  brewed,  in  floods  of  amber  shine  : 
And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  blaze, 
Mid  many  a  tale  told  of  his  boyish  days, 
The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 
"  'T  was  on  these  knees  he  sate  so  oft  and  smiled." 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white ;  and  hymns  be  sung, 
And  violets  scattered  round ;  and  old  and  young, 


180  HUMAN   LIFE. 

In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  green, 
Stand  still  to  gaze,1  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene  ; 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side 
Moves  in  her  virgin-veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas  !  nor  in  a  distant  hour, 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower ; 
When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weepings  heard  where  only  joy  has  been ; 
When  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more, 
He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  before. 

And  such  is  Human  Life ;  so,  gliding  on, 
It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  arid  is  gone  ! 
Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange, 
As  full,  methinks,  of  wild  and  wondrous  change, 
As  any  that  the  wandering  tribes  require, 
Stretched  in  the  desert  round  their  evening-fire ; 
As  any  sung  of  old  in  hall  or  bower 
To  minstrel-harps  at  midnight's  witching-hour ! 

Born  in  a  trance,  we  wake,  observe,  inquire  ; 
And  the  green  earth,  the  azure  sky,  admire. 
Of  Elfin-size  —  forever  as  we  run, 
We  cast  a  longer  shadow  in  the  sun  ! 
And  now  a  charm,  and  now  a  grace  is  won  ! 
We  grow  in  stature,  and  in  wisdom  too  ! 
And,  as  new  scenes,  new  objects,  rise  to  view, 
Think  nothing  done  while  aught  remains  to  do.2 

Yet,  all  forgot,  how  oft  the  eye-lids  close, 
And  from  the  slack  hand  drops  the  gathered  rose  ! 
How  oft,  as  dead,  on  the  warm  turf  we  lie, 
While  many  an  emmet  comes  with  curious  eye  ; 
And  on  her  nest  the  watchful  wren  sits  by ! 


HUMAN   LIFE.  181 

Nor  do  we  speak  or  move,  or  hear  or  see  ; 

So  like  what  once  we  were,  and  once  again  shall  be  ! 

And  say,  how  soon,  where,  blithe  as  innocent, 
The  boy  at  sunrise  carolled  as  he  went, 
An  aged  pilgrim  on  his  staff  shall  lean, 
Tracing  in  vain  the  footsteps  o'er  the  green ; 
The  man  himself  how  altered,  not  the  scene  ! 
Now  journeying  home  with  nothing  but  the  name  ; 
Way-worn  and  spent,  another  and  the  same  ! 

No  eye  observes  the  growth  or  the  decay. 
To-day  we  look  as  we  did  yesterday  ; 
And  we  shall  look  to-morrow  as  to-day. 
Yet  while  the  loveliest  smiles,  her  locks  grow  gray ! 
And  in  her  glass  could  she  but  see  the  face 
She  '11  see  so  soon  among  another  race, 
How  would  she  shrink  !  —  Returning  from  afar, 
After  some  years  of  travel,  some  of  war, 
Within  his  gate  Ulysses  stood  unknown 
Before  a  wife,  a  father,  and  a  son  ! 

And  such  is  Human  Life,  the  general  theme. 
Ah  !  what  at  best,  what  but  a  longer  dream  ? 
Though  with  such  wild  romantic  wanderings  fraught, 
Such  forms  in  Fancy's  richest  coloring  wrought, 
That,  like  the  visions  of  a  love-sick  brain, 
Who  would  not  sleep  and  dream  them  o'er  again  ? 

Our  pathway  leads  but  to  a  precipice  ;3 
And  all  must  follow,  fearful  as  it  is  ! 
From  the  first  step  't  is  known  ;  but  —  No  delay  ! 
On,  't  is  decreed.     We  tremble  and  obey. 
A  thousand  ills  beset  us  as  we  go. 
-  "  Still,  could  I  shun  the  fatal  gulf"  —  Ah,  no, 
16 


182 


HUMAN   LIFE. 


'T  is  all  in  vain  —  the  inexorable  Law  ! 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  brink  we  draw. 
Verdure  springs  up  ;  and  fruits  and  flowers  invite, 
And  groves  and  fountains  —  all  things  that  delight. 
"  0,  I  would  stop,  and  linger  if  I  might !  "  - 
We  fly  ;  no  resting  for  the  foot  we  find  ;4 
All  dark  before,  all  desolate  behind  ! 
At  length  the  brink  appears  —  but  one  step  more  ! 
We  faint —  On,  on  !  —  we  falter  —  and  ;t  is  o'er  ! 

Yet  here  high  passions,  high  desires  unfold, 
Prompting  to  noblest  deeds ;  here  links  of  gold 
Bind  soul  to  soul ;  and  thoughts  divine  inspire 
A  thirst  unquenchable,  a  holy  fire 
That  will  not,  cannot  but  with  life  expire  ! 

Now,  seraph-winged,  among  the  stars  we  soar  ;5 
Now  distant  ages,  like  a  day,  explore, 
And  judge  the  act,  the  actor  now  no  more  ; 
Or,  in  a  thankless  hour,  condemned  to  live,0 
From  others  claim  what  these  refuse  to  give, 
And  dart,  like  MILTON,  an  unerring  eye 
Through  the  dim  curtains  of  Futurity.7 

Wealth,  pleasure,  ease,  all  thought  of  self  resigned, 
What  will  not  man  encounter  for  mankind  ? 
Behold  him  now  unbar  the  prison-door,8 
And,  lifting  Guilt,  Contagion,  from  the  floor, 
To  peace  and  health,  and  light  and  life  restore ; 
Now  in  Thermopylae  remain  to  share 
Death  —  nor  look  back,  nor  turn  a  footstep  there, 
Leaving  his  story  to  the  birds  of  air ; 
And  now  like  Pylades  (in  Heaven  they  write 
Names  such  as  his  in  characters  of  light) 


HUMAN    LIFE.  183 

Long  with  his  friend  in  generous  enmity,0 
Pleading,  insisting  in  his  place  to  die  ! 

Do  what  he  will,  he  cannot  realize 
Half  he  conceives  —  the  glorious  vision  flies. 
Go  where  he  may,  he  cannot  hope  to  find 
The  truth,  the  beauty  pictured  in  his  mind. 
But  if  by  chance  an  object  strike  the  sense, 
The  faintest  shadow  of  that  excellence, 
Passions,  tbat  slept,  are  stirring  in  his  frame ; 
Thoughts  undefined,  feelings  without  a  name  ! 
And  some,  not  here  called  forth,  may  slumber  on 
Till  this  vain  pageant  of  a  world  is  gone ; 
Lying  too  deep  for  things  that  perish  here, 
Waiting  for  life  —  but  in  a  nobler  sphere  ! 

Look  where  he  comes  !  Rejoicing  in  his  birth, 
A  while  he  moves  as  in  a  heaven  on  earth  ! 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  —  the  land,  the  sea,  the  sky, 
To  him  shine  out  as  in  a  galaxy ! 
But  soon  't  is  past10-  —  the  light  has  died  away  ! 
With  him  it  came  (it  was  not  of  the  day) 
And  he  himself  diffused  it,  like  the  stone 
That  sheds  a  while  a  lustre  all  its  own,11 
Making  night  beautiful.     'T  is  past,  ?tis  gone, 
And  in  his  darkness  as  he  journeys  on, 
Nothing  revives  him  but  the  blessed  ray 
That  now  breaks  in,  nor  ever  knows  decay, 
Sent  from  a  better  world  to  light  him  on  his  way. 

How  great  the  Mystery  !    Let  others  sing 
The  circling  Year, —  the  promise  of  the  Spring, 
The  Summer's  glory,  and  the  rich  repose 
Of  Autumn,  and  the  Winter's  silvery  snows. 


184  HUMAN   LIFE. 

Man  through  the  changing  scene  let  us  pursue, 

Himself  how  wondrous  in  his  changes  too ! 

Not  Man,  the  sullen  savage  in  his  den  ; 

But  Man  called  forth  in  fellowship  with  men  ; 

Schooled  and  trained  up  to  wisdom  from  his  birth  ; M 

God's  noblest  work  —  His  image  upon  earth  ! 

The  day  arrives,  the  moment  wished  and  feared ; I3 
The  child  is  born,  by  many  a  pang  endeared. 
And  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry ; 
0,  grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye  ! 
He  comes  .  .  .  she  clasps  him.    To  her  bosom  pressed, 
He  drinks  the  balm  of  life  and  drops  to  rest. 

Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  stranger  knows ; 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shows  ! 
As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy, 
What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy  ! 
He  walks,  he  speaks.     In  many  a  broken  word 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs,  are  heard. 
And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies, 
When  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Locked  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung 
(That  name  most  dear  forever  on  his  tongue), 
As  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings, 
And,  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  sings, 
How  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 
Breathe  his  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart ; 
Watch  o'er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove, 
And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a  mother's  love  ! 

But  soon  a  nobler  task  demands  her  care. 
Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer, 
Telling  of  Him  who  sees  in  secret  there !  — 


HUMAN   LIFE.  185 

And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caught 

His  wandering  eye  —  now  many  a  written  thought, 

Never  to  die,  with  many  a  lisping  sweet, 

His  moving,  murmuring  lips  endeavor  to  repeat. 

Released,  he  chases  the  bright  butterfly ; 
0,  he  would  follow  —  follow  through  the  sky  ! 
Climbs  the  gaunt  mastiff  slumbering  in  his  chain, 
And  chides  and  buffets,  clinging  by  the  mane ; 
Then  runs,  and,  kneeling  by  the  fountain-side, 
Sends  his  brave  ship,  in  triumph  down  the  tide, 
A  dangerous  voyage  ;  or,  if  now  he  can, 
If -now  he  wears  the  habit  of  a  man, 
Flings  off  the  coat  so  much  his  pride  and  pleasure, 
And.  like  a  miser  digging  for  his  treasure, 
His  tiny  spade  in  his  own  garden  plies, 
And  in  green  letters  sees  his  name  arise  ! 
Where'er  he  goes,  forever  in  her  sight, 
She  looks,  and  looks,  and  still  with  new  delight ! 

Ah !  who,  when  fading  of  itself  away, 
Would  cloud  the  sunshine  of  his  little  day  ! 
Now  is  the  May  of  life.     Exulting  round, 
Joy  wings  his  feet,  Joy  lifts  him  from  the  ground  ! 
Pointing  to  such,  well  might  Cornelia  say, 
When  the  rich  casket  shone  in  bright  array, 
"  These  are  MY  Jewels  ! " 14  Well  of  such  as  he, 
When  JESUS  spake,  well  might  the  language  be, 
"  Suffer  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me  ! "  15 

Thoughtful  by  fits,  he  scans  and  he  reveres 
The  brow  engraven  with  the  thoughts  of  years ; 1G 
Close  by  her  side  his  silent  homage  given 
As  to  some  pure  intelligence  from  Heaven ; 
16* 


186  HUMAN   LIFE. 

His  eyes  cast  downward  with  ingenuous  shame, 
His  conscious  cheeks,  conscious  of  praise  or  blame. 
At  once  lit  up  as  with  a  holy  flame  ! 
He  thirsts  for  knowledge,  speaks  but  to  inquire ; 
And  soon  with  tears  relinquished  to  the  sire, 
Soon  in  his  hand  to  Wisdom's  temple  led, 
Holds  secret  converse  with  the  mighty  dead  • 
Trembles  and  thrills  and  weeps  as  they  inspire, 
Burns  as  they  burn,  and  with  congenial  fire ! 17 
Like  her  most  gentle,  most  unfortunate,18 
Crowned  but  to  die  —  who  in  her  chamber  sate 
Musing  with  Plato,  though  the  horn  was  blown, 
And  every  ear  and  every  heart  was  won, 
And  all  in  green  array  were  chasing  down  the  sun  !' 

Then  is  the  Age  of  Admiration  ! 19  —  Then 
Gods  walk  the  earth,  or  beings  more  than  men ; 
Who  breathe  the  soul  of  inspiration  round, 
Whose  very  shadows  consecrate  the  ground ! 
Ah  !  then  comes  thronging  many  a  wild  desire, 
And  high  imagining  and  thought  of  fire  ! 
Then  from  within  a  voice  exclaims  u  Aspire  !  " 
Phantoms,  that  upward  point,  before  him  pass, 
As  in  the  cave  athwart  the  wizard's  glass ; 
They,  that  on  youth  a  grace,  a  lustre  shed, 
Of  every  age  —  the  living  and  the  dead  ! 
Thou,  all-accomplished  SURREY,  thou  art  known ; 
The  flower  of  knighthood,  nipt  as  soon  as  blown ! 
Melting  all  hearts  but  Geraldine's  alone ! 
And,  with  his  beaver  up,  discovering  there 
One  who  loved  less  to  conquer  than  to  spare, 
Lo  !  the  Black  Warrior,  he,  who,  battle-spent, 
Bare-headed  served  the  captive  in  his  tent ! 


HUMAN   LIFE.  187 

Young  B in  the  groves  of  Academe, 

Or  where  Ilyssus  winds  his  whispering  stream ; 
Or  where  the  wild  bees  swarm  with  ceaseless  hum, 
Dreaming  old  dreams  —  a  joy  for  years  to  come ; 
Or  on  the  rock  within  the  sacred  fane ;  — 
Scenes  such  as  MILTON  sought,  but  sought  in  vain : w 
And  MILTON'S  self  (at  that  thrice-honored  name 
Well  may  we  glow  —  as  men,  we  share  his  fame)  — 21 
And  MILTON'S  self,  apart  with  beaming  eye, 
Planning  he  knows  not  what  —  that  shall  not  die  ! 

0,  in  thy  truth  secure,  thy  virtue  bold, 
Beware  the  poison  in  the  cup  of  gold, 
The  asp  among  the  flowers  !    Thy  heart  beats  high, 
As  bright  and  brighter  breaks  the  distant  sky  ! 
But  every  step  is  on  enchanted  ground. 
Danger  thou  lov'st,  and  Danger  haunts  thee  round. 

Who  spurs  his  horse  against  the  mountain-side ; 
Then,  plunging,  slakes  his  fury  in  the  tide  ? 
Draws,  and  cries  ho  !  and,  where  the  sunbeams  fall, 
At  his  own  shadow  thrusts  along  the  wall  ? 
Who  dances  without  music ;  and  anon 
Sings  like  the  lark — then  sighs  as  woe-begone, 
And  folds  his  arms,  and,  where  the  willows  wave, 
Glides  in  the  moonshine  by  a  maiden's  grave  ? 
Come  hither,  boy,  and  clear  thy  open  brow. 
Yon  summer-clouds,  now  like  the  Alps,  and  now 
A  ship,  a  whale,  change  not  so  fast  as  thou. 

He  hears  me  not !  — Those  sighs  were  from  the  heart. 
Too,  too  well  taught,  he  plays  the  lover's  part. 
He  who  at  masques,  nor  feigning  nor  sincere, 
With  sweet  discourse  would  win  a  lady's  ear, 


188  HUMAN   LIFE. 

Lie  at  her  feet  and  on  her  slipper  swear 
That  none  were  half  so  faultless,  half  so  fair, 
Now  through  the  forest  hies,  a  stricken  deer, 
A  banished  man,  flying  when  none  are  near ; 
And  writes  on  every  tree,  and  lingers  long 
Where  most  the  nightingale  repeats  her  song ; 
Where  most  the  nymph,  that  haunts  the  silent  grove, 
Delights  to  syllable  the  names  we  love. 

Two  on  his  steps  attend,  in  motley  clad  ; 
One  woful-wan,  one  merry  but  as  mad  ; 
Called  Hope  and  Fear.     Hope  shakes  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  flowers  spring  up  among  the  woodland  dells. 
To  Hope  he  listens,  wandering  without  measure 
Through  sun  and  shade,  lost  in  a  trance  of  pleasure  ; 
And,  if  to  Fear  but  for  a  weary  mile, 
Hope  follows  fast  and  wins  him  with  a  smile. 

At  length  he  goes  —  a  pilgrim  to  the  shrine, 
And  for  a  relic  would  a  world  resign  ! 
A  glove,  a  shoe-tie,  or  a  flower  let  fall  — 
What  though  the  least,  Love  consecrates  them  all ! 
And  now  he  breathes  in  many  a  plaintive  verse  ; 
Now  wins  the  dull  ear  of  the  wily  nurse 
At  early  matins  ('t  was  at  matin-time 22 
That  first  he  saw  and  sickened  in  his  prime), 
And  soon  the  Sibyl,  in  her  thirst  for  gold, 
Plays  with  young  hearts  that  will  not  be  controlled. 

"  Absence  from  thee  — as  self  from  self  it  seems  !  " 
Scaled  is  the  garden- wall ;  and,  lo  !  her  beams 
Silvering  the  east,  the  moon  comes  up,  revealing 
His  well-known  form  along  the  terrace  stealing. 
—  0,  ere  in  sight  he  came,  Jt  was  his  to  thrill 
A  heart  that  loved  him  though  in  secret  still. 


HUMAN   LIFE.  189 

c:  Am  I  awake  ?  or  is  it  ...  can  it  be 
An  idle  dream  ?     Nightly  it  visits  me  ! 

—  That  strain,"  she  cries,  "  as  from  the  water  rose; 
Now  near  and  nearer  through  the  shade  it  flows  !  — 
Now  sinks  departing  —  sweetest  in  its  close  !  " 

No  casement  gleams  ;  no  Juliet,  like  the  day, 
Comes  forth  and  speaks  and  bids  her  lover  stay. 
Still,  like  aerial  music  heard  from  far 
As  through  the  doors  of  Paradise  ajar, 
Nightly  it  rises  with  the  evening-star. 

—  "  She  loves  another  !     Love  was  in  that  sigh !  " 
On  the  cold  ground  he  throws  himself  to  die. 
Fond  youth,  beware  !     Thy  heart  is  most  deceiving. 
Who  wish  are  fearful ;  who  suspect,  believing. 

—  xlnd  soon  her  looks  the  rapturous  truth  avow. 
Lovely  before,  0,  say  how  lovely  now  !  ^ 

She  flies  not,  frowns  not,  though  he  pleads  his  cause  ; 
Nor  yet  —  nor  yet  her  hand  from  his  withdraws  ; 
But  by  some  secret  power  surprised,  subdued, 
(Ah  !  how  resist  ?     And  would  she  if  she  could  ?) 
Falls  on  his  neck  as  half  unconscious  where, 
Glad  to  conceal  her  tears,  her  blushes,  there. 

Then  come  those  full  confidings  of  the  past ; 
All  sunshine  now,  where  all  was  overcast. 
Then  do  they  wander  till  the  day  is  gone, 
Lost  in  each  other ;  and  when  night  steals  on, 
Covering  them  round,  how  sweet  her  accents  are  ! 
0,  when  she  turns  and  speaks,  her  voice  is  far, 
Far  above  singing  !  —  But  soon  nothing  stirs 
To  break  the  silence — joy  like  his,  like  hers, 
Deals  not  in  words  ;  and  now  the  shadows  close, 
Now  in  the  glimmering,  dying  light  she  grows 


190  HUMAN   LIFE. 

Less  and  less  earthly  !     As  departs  the  day, 
All  that  was  mortal  seems  to  melt  away, 
Till,  like  a  gift  resumed  as  soon  as  given, 
She  fades  at  last  into  a  spirit  from  Heaven ! 

Then  are  they  blest  indeed  :  and  swift  the  hours 
Till  her  young  sisters  wreathe  her  hair  in  flowers, 
Kindling  her  beauty  —  while,  unseen,  the  least 
Twitches  her  robe,  then  runs  behind  the  rest, 
Known  by  her  laugh  that  will  not  be  suppressed. 
Then  before  All  they  stand  —  the  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions  now, 
Bind  her  as  his.     Across  the  threshold  led, 
And  every  tear  kissed  off  as  soon  as  shed, 
His  house  she  enters  —  there  to  be  a  light 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  night ; 
A  guardian- angel  o'er  his  life  presiding, 
Doubling  his  pleasures,  and  his  cares  dividing  ; 
Winning  him  back,  when  mingling  in  the  throng, 
From  a  vain  world  we  love,  alas  !  too  long, 
To  fireside  happiness,  and  hours  of  ease 
Blest  with  that  charm,  the  certainty  to  please. 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  his  !  her  gentle  mind 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inclined  ; 
Still  subject  —  ever  on  the  watch  to  borrow 
Mirth  of  his  mirth,  and  sorrow  of  his  sorrow. 
The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell, 
Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell ; 
And  feeling  hearts  —  touch  them  but  rightly  —  pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before  !  ~4 

Nor  many  moons  o'er  hill  and  valley  rise 
Ere  to  the  gate  with  nymph-like  step  she  flies, 


HUM  AX    LIFE.  191 

And  their  first-born  holds  forth,  their  darling  boy, 

With  smiles  how  sweet,  how  full  of  love  and  joy, 

To  meet  him  coming  ;  theirs  through  every  year 

Pure  transports,  such  as  each  to  each  endear ! 

And  laughing  eyes  and  laughing  voices  fill 

Their  home  with  gladness.     She,  when  all  are  still, 

Comes  and  undraws  the  curtain  as  they  lie, 

In  sleep  how  beautiful !     He,  when  the  sky 

Gleams,  and  the  wood  sends  up  its  harmony, 

When,  gathering  round  his  bed,  they  climb  to  share 

His  kisses,  and  with  gentle  violence  there 

Break  in  upon  a  dream  not  half  so  fair. 

Up  to  the  hill-top  leads  their  little  feet ; 

Or  by  the  forest-lodge,  perchance  to  meet 

The  stag-herd  on  its  march,  perchance  to  hear 

The  otter  rustling  in  the  sedgy  mere ; 

Or  to  the  echo  near  the  Abbot's  tree, 

That  gave  him  back  his  words  of  pleasantry  — 

When  the  House  stood,  no  merrier  man  than  he ! 

And,  as  they  wander  with  a  keen  delight, 

If  but  a  leveret  catch  their  quicker  sight 

Down  a  green  alley,  or  a  squirrel  then 

Climb  the  gnarled  oak,  and  look  and  climb  again, 

If  but  a  moth  flit  by,  an  acorn  fall, 

He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  who  made  them  all ; 26 

These  with  unequal  footsteps  following  fast, 

These  clinging  by  his  cloak,  unwilling  to  be  last. 

The  shepherd  on  Tornaro's  misty  brow, 
And  the  swart  seaman,  sailing  far  below, 
Not  undelighted  watch  the  morning  ray 
Purpling  the  orient  —  till  it  breaks  away, 
And  burns  and  blazes  into  glorious  day  ! 


192  HUMAN    LIFE. 

But  happier  still  is  he  who  bends  to  trace 
That  sun,  the  soul,  just  dawning  in  the  face ; 
The  burst,  the  glow,  the  animating  strife, 
The  thoughts  and  passions  stirring  into  life ; 
The  forming  utterance,  the  inquiring  glance. 
The  giant  waking  from  his  ten-fold  trance, 
Till  up  he  starts  as  conscious  whence  he  came, 
And  all  is  light  within  the  trembling  frame  ! 

What  then  a  father's  feelings  ?     Joy  and  fear 
In  turn  prevail,  — joy  most ;  and  through  the  year 
Tempering  the  ardent,  urging  night  and  day 
Him  who  shrinks  back  or  wanders  from  the  way, 
Praising  each  highly  —  from  a  wish  to  raise 
Their  merits  to  the  level  of  his  praise, 
Onward  in  their  observing  sight  he  moves, 
Fearful  of  wrong,  in  awe  of  whom  he  loves  ! 
Their  sacred  presence  who  shall  dare  profane  ? 
Who,  when  he  slumbers,  hope  to  fix  a  stain  ? 
He  lives  a  model  in  his  life  to  show, 
That,  when  he  dies  and  through  the  world  they  go, 
Some  men  may  pause  and  say,  when  some  admire, 
"  They  are  his  sons,  and  worthy  of  their  sire  !  " 

But  man  is  born  to  suffer.     On  the  door 
Sickness  has  set  her  mark  ;  and  now  no  more 
Laughter  within  we  hear,  or  wood-notes  wild 
As  of  a  mother  singing  to  her  child. 
All  now  in  anguish  from  that  room  retire, 
Where  a  young  cheek  glows  with  consuming  fire, 
And  innocence  breathes  contagion  —  all  but  one, 
But  she  who  gave  it  birth  —  from  her  alone 
The  medicine-cup  is  taken.     Through  the  night,26 
And  through  the  day,  that  with  its  dreary  light 


HUMAN   LIFE.  193 

• 

Comes  unregarded,  she  sits  silent  by,27 
Watching  the  changes  with  her  anxious  eye  ; 
While  they  without,  listening  below,  above, 
(Who  but  in  sorrow  know  how  much  they  love  ?) 
From  every  little  noise  catch  hope  and  fear, 
Exchanging  still,  still  as  they  turn  to  hear, 
Whispers  and  sighs,  and  smiles  all  tenderness, 
That  would  in  vain  the  starting  tear  repress. 

Such  grief  was  ours  —  it  seems  but  yesterday  — 
When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 
'T  was  thine,  Maria,  thine  without  a  sigh 
At  midnight  in  a  sister's  arms  to  die  ! 
0,  thou  wert  lovely  —  lovely  was  thy  frame, 
And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  Heaven  it  came  ! 
And,  when  recalled  to  join  the  blest  above, 
Thou  diedst  a  victim  to  exceeding  love, 
Nursing  the  young  to  health.     In  happier  hours, 
When  idle  Fancy  wove  luxuriant  flowers, 
Once  in  thy  mirth  thou  bad'st  me  write  on  thee ; 
And  now  I  write  —  what  thou  shalt  never  see  ! 

At  length  the  father,  vain  his  power  to  save, 
Follows  his  child  in  silence  to  the  grave 
(That  child  how  cherished,  whom  he  would  not  give, 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  death,  for  all  that  live)  ; 
Takes  a  last  look,  when,  not  unheard,  the  spade 
Scatters  the  earth  as  "  dust  to  dust "  ^  is  said, 
Takes  a  last  look  and  goes ;  his  best  relief 
Consoling  others  in  that  hour  of  grief, 
And  with  sweet  tears  and  gentle  words  infusing 
The  holy  calm  that  leads  to  heavenly  musing. 

But  hark,  the  din  of  arms  !  no  time  for  sorrow. 
To  horse,  to  horse  !     A  day  of  blood  to-morrow  ! 
17 


194  HUMAN   LIFE. 

• 

One  parting  pang,  and  then  —  and  then  I  fly, 
Fly  to  the  field,  to  triumph  —  or  to  die  !  — 
He  goes,  and  night  comes  as  it  never  came  !  M 
With  shrieks  of  horror  !  —  and  a  vault  of  flame  ! 
And,  lo  !  when  morning  mocks  the  desolate, 
Red  runs  the  river  by ;  and  at  the  gate 
Breathless  a  horse  without  his  rider  stands  ! 
But  hush  !  .  .  a  shout  from  the  victorious  bands ! 
And,  0,  the  smiles  and  tears,  a  sire  restored  ! 
One  wears  his  helm,  one  buckles  on  his  sword ; 
One  hangs  the  wall  with  laurel-leaves,  and  all 
Spring  to  prepare  the  soldier's  festival ; 
While  she  best-loved,  till  then  forsaken  never, 
Clings  round  his  neck  as  she  would  cling  forever  ! 

Such  golden  deeds  lead  on  to  golden  days, 
Days  of  domestic  peace  —  by  him  who  plays 
On  the  great  stage  how  uneventful  thought ! 
Yet  with  a  thousand  busy  projects  fraught, 
A  thousand  incidents  that  stir  the  mind 
To  pleasure,  such  as  leaves  no  sting  behind ! 
Such  as  the  heart  delights  in  —  and  records 
Within  how  silently  30   —  in  more  than  words  ! 
A  holiday  —  the  frugal  banquet  spread 
On  the  fresh  herbage  near  the  fountain-head 
With  quips  and  cranks  —  what  time  the  wood-lark  there 
Scatters  his  loose  notes  on  the  sultry  air, 
What  time  the  king-fisher  sits  perched  below, 
Where,  silver-bright,  the  water-lilies  blow  :  — 
A  Wake  —  the  booths  whitening  the  village  green, 
Where  Punch  and  Scaramouch  aloft  are  seen ; 
Sign  beyond  sign  in  close  array  unfurled, 
Picturing  at  large  the  wonders  of  the  world  ; 


HUMAN    LIFE.  195 

And  far  and  wide,  over  the  vicar's  pale, 
Black  hoods  and  scarlet  crossing  hill  and  dale, 
All,  all  abroad,  and  music  in  the  gale :  — 
A  wedding  dance  —  a  dance  into  the  night 
On  the  barn-floor,  when  maiden-feet  are  light ; 
When  the  young  bride  receives  the  promised  dower. 
And  flowers  are  flung,  herself  a  fairer  flower :  — 
A  morning- visit  to  the  poor  man's  shed, 
(Who  would  be  rich  while  one  wras  wanting  bread  ?) 
When  all  are  emulous  to  bring  relief, 
And  tears  are  falling  fast  —  but  not  for  grief :  — 
A  walk  in  Spring  —  GRATTAN,  like  those  with  thee 3l 
By  the  heath-side  (who  had  not  envied  me  ?) 
When  the  sweet  limes,  so  full  of  bees  in  June, 
Led  us  to  meet  beneath  their  boughs  at  noon  • 
And  thou  didst  say  which  of  the  great  and  wise, 
Could  they  but  hear  and  at  thy  bidding  rise, 
Thou  wouldst  call  up  and  question. 

Graver  things 

Gome  in  due  order.     Every  morning  brings 
Its  holy  office  ;  and  the  Sabbath-bell, 
That  over  wood  and  wild  and  mountain-dell 
Wanders  so  far,  chasing  all  thoughts  unholy 
With  sounds  most  musical,  most  melancholy^ 
Not  on  his  ear  is  lost.     Then  he  pursues 
The  pathway  leading  through  the  aged  yews, 
Nor  unattended  ;  and,  when  all  are  there,32 
Pours  out  his  spirit  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
That  house  with  many  a  funeral-garland  hung33 
Of  virgin-white  —  memorials  of  the  youngr 
The  last  yet  fresh  when  marriage-chimes  were  ringing, 
And  hope  and  joy  in  other  hearts  were  springing  • 


196  HUMAN  LIFE. 

That  house,  where  Age  led  in  by  Filial  Love, 
Their  looks  composed,  their  thoughts  on  things  above, 
The  world  forgot,  or  all  its  wrongs  forgiven  — 
Who  would  not  say  they  trod  the  path  to  Heaven  ? 

Nor  at  the  fragrant  hour  —  at  early  dawn  — 
Under  the  elm-tree  on  his  level  lawn, 
Or  in  his  porch,  is  he  less  duly  found,    • 
When  they  that  cry  for  justice  gather  round, 
And  in  that  cry  her  sacred  voice  is  drowned ; 
His  then  to  hear,  and  weigh  and  arbitrate, 
Like  ALFRED  judging  at  his  palace-gate. 
Healed  at  his  touch,  the  wounds  of  discord  close  ; 
And  they  return  as  friends,  that  came  as  foes. 

Thus,  while  the  world  but  claims  its  proper  part, 
Oft  in  the  head  but  never  in  the  heart, 
His  life  steals  on ;  within  his  quiet  dwelling 
That  home-felt  joy  all  other  joys  excelling. 
Sick  of  the  crowd,  when  enters  he  —  nor  then 
Forgets  the  cold  indifference  of  men  ? 

Soon  through  the  gadding  vine  the  sun  looks  in,34 
And  gentle  hands  the  breakfast-rite  begin. 
Then  the  bright  kettle  sings  its  matin-song, 
Then  fragrant  clouds  of  Mocha  and  Souchong 
Blend  as  they  rise ;  and  (while  without  are  seen, 
Sure  of  their  meal,  the  small  birds  on  the  green  ; 
And  in  from  far  a  school-boy's  letter  flies, 
Flushing  the  sister's  cheek  with  glad  surprise) 
That  sheet  unfolds  (who  reads,  and  reads  it  not  ?) 
Born  with  the  day  and  with  the  day  forgot ; 
Its  ample  page  various  as  human  life, 
The  pomp,  the  woe,  the  bustle,  and  the  strife  ! 

But  nothing  lasts.     In  Autumn  at  his  plough 
Met  and  solicited,  behold  him  now 


HUMAN   LIFE.  197 

Leaving  that  humbler  sphere  his  fathers  knew, 
The  sphere  that  Wisdom  loves,  and  Virtue  too ; 
They  who  subsist  not  on  the  vain  applause 
Misjudging  man  now  gives  and  now  withdraws. 

'T  was  morn  —  the  sky- lark  o'er  the  furrow  sung 
As  from  his  lips  the  slow  consent  was  wrung ; 
As  from  the  glebe  his  fathers  tilled  of  old, 
The  plough  they  guided  in  an  age  of  gold, 
Down  by  the  beech  wood-side  he  turned  away :  — 
And  now  behold  him  in  an  evil  day 
Serving  the  State  again  —  not  as  before, 
Not  foot  to  foot,  the  war-whoop  at  his  door, — 
But  in  the  Senate  ;  and  (though  round  him  fly 
The  jest,  the  sneer,  the  subtle  sophistry) 
With  honest  dignity,35  with  manly  sense, 
And  every  charm  of  natural  eloquence, 
Like  HAMPDEN  struggling  in  his  country's  cause,'0"6 
The  first,  the  foremost  to  obey  the  laws, 
The  last  to  brook  oppression.     On  he  moves, 
Careless  of  blame  while  his  own  heart  approves, 
Careless  of  ruin — 37  ("  For  the  general  good 
;T  is  not  the  first  time  I  shall  shed  my  blood.") 
On  through  that  gate  misnamed,88  through  which  before 
Went  Sidney,  Russell,  Raleigh,  Cranmer,  More, 
On  into  twilight  within  walls  of  stone, 
Then  to  the  place  of  trial ; 39  and  alone,40 
Alone  before  his  judges  in  array 
Stands  for  his  life  :  there,  on  that  awful  day, 
Counsel  of  friends  —  all  human  help  denied  — 
All  but  from  her  who  sits  the  pen  to  guide, 
Like  that  sweet  saint  who  sate  by  RUSSELL'S  side 
Under  the  judgment-seat.41 


198  HUMAN  LIFE. 

But  guilty  men 

Triumph  not  always.     To  his  hearth  again. 
Again  with  honor  to  his  hearth  restored, 
Lo  !  in  the  accustomed  chair  and  at  the  board, 
Thrice  greeting  those  who  most  withdraw  their  claim  ^ 
(The  lowliest  servant  calling  by  his  name), 
He  reads  thanksgiving  in  the  eyes  of  all, 
All  met  as  at  a  holy  festival ! 
—  On  the  day  destined  for  his  funeral ! 
Lo  !  there  the  friend,43  who,  entering  where  he  lay, 
Breathed  in  his  drowsy  ear  ' '  Away,  away  ! 
Take  thou  my  cloak  !  —  Nay,  start  not,  but  obey  — 
Take  it  and  leave  me."     And  the  blushing  maid, 
Who  through  the  streets  as  through  a  desert  strayed ; 
And,  when  her  dear,  dear  father  passed  along,44 
Would  not  be  held — but,  bursting  through  the  throng, 
Halberd  and  battle-axe  —  kissed  him  o'er  and  o'er ; 
Then  turned  and  went  —  then  sought  him  as  before, 
Believing  she  should  see  his  face  no  more ! 
And,  0,  how  changed  at  once  —  no  heroine  here, 
But  a  weak  woman  worn  with  grief  and  fear, 
Her  darling  mother  !     'T  was  but  now  she  smiled ; 
And  now  she  weeps  upon  her  weeping  child  ! 
—  But  who  sits  by,  her  only  wish  below 
At  length  fulfilled  —  and  now  prepared  to  go  ? 
His  hands  on  hers  —  as  through  the  mists,  of  night, 
She  gazes  on  him  with  imperfect  sight ; 
Her  glory  now,  as  ever  her  delight ! 45 
To  her,  methinks,  a  second  youth  is  given  ; 
The  light  upon  her  face  a  light  from  Heaven  ! 
An  hour  like  this  is  worth  a  thousand  passed 
In  pomp  or  ease.  —  •  'T  is  present  to  the  last ! 


HUMAN   LIFE.  199 

Years  glide  away  untold  —  't  is  still  the  same  ! 
As  fresh,  as  fair,  as  on  the  day  it  came  ! 

And  now  once  more  where  most  he  loved  to  be, 
In  his  own  fields  —  breathing  tranquillity  — 
We  hail  him  —  not  less  happy,  Fox,  than  thee, 
Thee  at  St.  Anne's  so  soon  of  care  beguiled, 
Playful,  sincere,  and  artless  as  a  child  !  % 

Thee,  who  wouldst  watch  a  bird's  nest  on  the  spray, 
Through  the  green  leaves  exploring,  day  by  day. 
How  oft  from  grove  to  grove,  from  seat  to  seat, 
With  thee  conversing  in  thy  loved  retreat, 
I  saw  the  sun  go  down  !  —  Ah  !  then  't  was  thine 
Ne'er  to  forget  some  volume  half  divine, 
Shakspeare's  or  Dry  den's — through  the  checkered  shade 
Borne  in  thy  hand  behind  thee  as  we  strayed ; 
And  where  we  sate  (and  many  a  halt  we  made) 
To  read  there  with  a  fervor  all  thy  own, 
And  in  thy  grand  and  melancholy  tone, 
Some  splendid  passage  not  to  thee  unknown, 
Fit  theme  for  long  discourse. —  Thy  bell  has  tolled  ! 
—  But  in  thy  place  among  us  wre  behold 
One  who  resembles  thee. 

'T  is  the  sixth  hour. 

The  village-clock  strikes  from  the  distant  tower. 
The  ploughman  leaves  the  field  ;  the  traveller  hears, 
And  to  the  inn  spurs  forward.     Nature  wears 
Her  sweetest  smile  ;  the  day-star  in  the  west 
Yet  hovering,  and  the  thistle's  down  at  rest. 

And  such,  his  labor  done,  the  calm  he  knows,46 
Whose  footsteps  we  have  followed.     Round  him  glows 
An  atmosphere  that  brightens  to  the  last ; 
The  light,  that  shines,  reflected  from  the  past, 


200  HUMAN    LIFE. 

—  And  from  the  future  too  !     Active  in  thought 
Among  old  books,  old  friends  ;  and  not  unsought 
By  the  wise  stranger  —  in  his  morning- hours, 
When  gentle  airs  stir  the  fresh-blowing  flowers, 
He  muses,  turning  up  the  idle  weed  ; 
Or  prunes  or  grafts,  or  in  the  yellow  mead 
Watches  his  bees  at  hiving-time  ; 47  and  now. 
The  ladder  resting  on  the  orchard-bough, 
Culls  the  delicious  fruit  that  hangs  in  air, 
The  purple  plum,  green  fig,  or  golden  pear, 
Mid  sparkling  eyes,  and  hands  uplifted  there. 

At  night,  when  all,  assembling  round  the  fire, 
Closer  and  closer  draw  till  they  retire, 
A  tale  is  told  of  India  or  Japan, 
Of  merchants  from  Golconde  or  Astracan, 
What  time  wild  nature  revelled  unrestrained, 
And  Sinbad  voyaged  and  the  Caliphs  reigned :  — 
Of  knights  renowned  from  holy  Palestine, 
And  minstrels,  such  as  swept  the  lyre  divine, 
When  Blondel  came,  and  Richard  in  his  cell  ^ 
Heard,  as  he  lay,  the  song  he  knew  so  well :  — 
Of  some  Norwegian,  while  the  icy  gale 
Rings  in  her  shrouds  and  beats  her  iron-sail, 
Among  the  shining  Alps  of  polar  seas 
Immovable  —  forever  there  to  freeze  ! 49 
Or  some  great  caravan,  from  well  to  well 
Winding  as  darkness  on  the  desert  fell, 
In  their  long  march,  such  as  the  Prophet  bids, 
To  Mecca  from  the  land  of  Pyramids, 
And  in  an  instant  lost  —  a  hollow  wave 
Of  burning  sand  their  everlasting  grave  !  — 
Now  the  scene  shifts  to  Cashmere  —  to  a  glade 
Where,  with  her  loved  gazelle,  the  dark-eyed  maid 


HUMAN   LIFE.  201 

(Her  fragrant  chamber  for  a  while  resigned, 
Her  lute,  by  fits  discoursing  with  the  wind) 
Wanders  well-pleased,  what  time  the  nightingale 
Sings  to  the  rose,  rejoicing  hill  and  dale ; 
And  now  to  Venice  —  to  a  bridge,  a  square, 
Glittering  with  light,  all  nations  masking  there, 
With  light  reflected  on  the  tremulous  tide, 
Where  gondolas  in  gay  confusion  glide, 
Answering  the  jest,  the  song  on  every  side  ; 
To  Naples  next  —  and  at  the  crowded  gate, 
Where  Grief  and  Fear  and  wild  Amazement  wait, 
Lo !  on  his  back  a  son  brings  in  his  sire,50 
Vesuvius  blazing  like  a  wrorld  on  fire  !  — 
Then,  at  a  sign  that  never  was  forgot, 
A  strain  breaks  forth  (who  hears  and  loves  it  not  ?  ) 
From  harp  or  organ  !31    'T  is  at  parting  given, 
That  in  their  slumbers  they  may  dream  of  Heaven ; 
Young  voices  mingling,  as  it  floats  along, 
In  Tuscan  air  or  Handel's  sacred  song  ! 

And  she  inspires,  whose  beauty  shines  in  all ; 
So  soon  to  weave  a  daughter's  coronal, 
And  at  the  nuptial  rite  smile  through  her  tears ;  — 
So  soon  to  hover  round  her  full  of  fears, 
And  with  assurance  sweet  her  soul  revive 
In  child-birth — ^when  a  mother's  love  is  most  alive  ! 

No,  't  is  not  here  that  Solitude  is  known. 
Through  the  wide  world  he  only  is  alone 
Who  lives  not  for  another.*3     Come  what  will, 
The  generous  man  has  his  companion  still : 
The  cricket  on  his  hearth  ;  the  buzzing  fly, 
That  skims  his  roof,  or,  be  his  roof  the  sky, 
Still  with  its  note  of  gladness  passes  by  : 


202  HUMAN   LIFE. 

And,  in  an  iron  cage  condemned  to  dwell, 
The  cage  that  stands  within  the  dungeon-cell, 
He  feeds  his  spider  —  happier  at  the  worst 
Than  he  at  large  who  in  himself  is  curst ! 

0  thou  all-eloquent,  whose  mighty  mind54 
Streams  from  the  depth  of  ages  on  mankind, 
Streams  like  the  day  —  who,  angel-like,  hast  shed 
Thy  full  effulgence  on  the  hoary  head, 
Speaking  in  Cato's  venerable  voice, 
"  Look  up,  and  faint  not  —  faint  not,  but  rejoice  !  " 
From  thy  Elysium  guide  him  !     Age  has  now 
Stamped  with  his  signet  that  ingenuous  brow ; 
And,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees, 
Trees  he  has  climbed  so  oft,  he  sits  and  sees 
His  children's  children  playing  round  his  knees  : 
Then  happiest,  youngest,  when  the  quoit  is  flung, 
When  side  by  side  the  archers'  bows  are  strung ; 
His  to  prescribe  the  place,  adjudge  the  prize, 
Envying  no  more  the  young  their  energies 
Than  they  an  old  man  when  his  words  are  wise  ; 
His  a  delight  how  pure  .  .  .  without  alloy ; 
Strong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in  their  joy  ! 

JSTow  in  their  turn  assisting,  they  repay 
The  anxious  cares  of  many  and  many  a  day ; 
And  now  by  those  he  loves  relieved,  restored, 
His  very  wants  and  weaknesses  afford 
A  feeling  of  enjoyment.     In  his  walks, 
Leaning  on  them,  how  oft  he  stops  and  talks, 
While  they  look  up  !     Their  questions,  their  replies, 
Fresh  as  the  welling  waters,  round  him  rise, 
Gladdening  his  spirit :  and,  his  theme  the  past, 
How  eloquent  he  is  !     His  thoughts  flow  fast ; 


HUMAN   LIFE.  203 

And,  while  his  heart  (0  !  can  the  heart  grow  old  ? 
False  are  the  tales  that  in  the  world  are  told  !) 
Swells  in  his  voice,  he  knows  not  where  to  end ; 
Like  one  discoursing  of  an  absent  friend. 

But  there  are  moments  which  he  calls  his  own. 
Then,  never  less  alone  than  when  alone, 
Those  whom  he  loved  so  long  and  sees  no  more, 
Loved  and  still  loves — not  dead — but  gone  before, 
He  gathers  round  him ;  and  revives  at  will 
Scenes  in  his  life — that  breathe  enchantment  still  — 
That  come  not  now  at  dreary  intervals  — 
But  where  a  light  as  from  the  Blessed  falls, 
A  light  such  guests  bring  ever  —  pure  and  holy  — 
Lapping  the  soul  in  sweetest  melancholy  ! 
—  Ah  !  then  less  willing  (nor  the  choice  condemn) 
To  live  with  others  than  to  think  of  them ! 

And  now  behold  him  up  the  hill  ascending, 
Memory  and  Hope  like  evening-stars  attending ; 
Sustained,  excited,  till  his  course  is  run, 
By  deeds  of  virtue  done  or  to  be  done. 
When  on  his  couch  he  sinks  at  length  to  rest, 
Those  by  his  counsel  saved,  his  power  redressed, 
Those  by  the  world  shunned  ever  as  unblest, 
At  whom  the  rich  man's  dog  growls  from  the  gate, 
But  whom  he  sought  out,  sitting  desolate, 
Come  and  stand  round — the  widow  with  her  child, 
As  when  she  first  forgot  her  tears  and  smiled  ! 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  see  not ;  but  he  sees, 
Sees  and  exults. — Were  ever  dreams  like  these  ? 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  hear  not ;  but  he  hears, 
And  earth  recedes,  and  Heaven  itself  appears  ! 

'T  is  past !     That  hand  we  grasped,  alas  !  in  vain  ! 
Nor  shall  we  look  upon  his  face  again  ! 


204  HUMAN    LIFE. 

But  to  his  closing  eyes,  for  all  were  there, 
Nothing  was  wanting ;  and,  through  many  a  year 
We  shall  remember  with  a  fond  delight 
The  words  so  precious  which  we  heard  to-night ; 
His  parting,  though  a  while  our  sorrow  flows, 
Like  setting  suns  or  music  at  tjie  close  ! 

Then  was  the  drama  ended.     Not  till  then, 
So  full  of  chance  and  change  the  lives  of  men, 
Could  we  pronounce  him  happy.     Then  secure 
From  pain,  from  grief,  and  all  that  we  endure, 
He  slept  in  peace  —  say  rather  soared  to  Heaven, 
Upborne  from  earth  by  Him  to  whom  't  is  given 
In  his  right  hand  to  hold  the  golden  key 
That  opes  the  portals  of  Eternity. 

-When  by  a  good  man's  grave  I  muse  alone, 
Methinks  an  angel  sits  upon  the  stone, 
And,  with  a  voice  inspiring  joy,  not  fear, 
Says,  pointing  upward,  "Know,  he  is  not  here  !  " 

But  let  us  hence :  for  now  the  day  is  spent, 
And  stars  are  kindling  in  the  firmament,55 
To  us  how  silent !  —  though  like  ours  perchance 
Busy  and  full  of  life  and  circumstance  ; 
Where  some  the  paths  of  Wealth  and  Power  pursue. 
Of  Pleasure  some,  of  Happiness  a  few  ; 
And,  as  the  sun  goes  round  —  a  sun  not  ours  — 
While  from  her  lap  another  Nature  showers 
Gifts  of  her  own,  some  from  the  crowd  retire, 
Think  on  themselves,  within,  without  inquire  ; 
At  distance  dwell  on  all  that  passes  there, 
All  that  their  world  reveals  of  good  and  fair ; 
Trace  out  the  journey  through  their  little  day, 
And  dream,  like  me,  an  idle  hour  away. 


NOTES. 


(1)  See  the  Iliad,  1.  xviii.  v.  496. 

(2)  "  Nil  actum  credens,  duin  quid  superesset  agendum."  —  Lucan  II.  657. 

(3)  See  Bossuet,  Sermon  sur  la  Resurrection. 

(4)  '-I  have  onsidere'V  says  Solomon,  "all  the  works  that  are  under  the  sun ,  and 
behold,  all  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit."     But  who  believes  it,  till  Death  tells  it  us  ? 
It  is  Death  alone  that  can  make  mail  to  know  himself.     He  tells  the  proud  and  insolent 
that  they  are  but  abjects,  and  humbles  them  at  the  instant.     He  takes  the  account  of  the 
rich  man,  and  proves  him  a  beggar,  —  a  naked  beggar.    He  holds  a  glass  before  the 
eyes  of  the  most  beautiful,  and  makes  them  see  therein  their  deformity  ;    and  they 
acknowledge  it 

0  eloquent,  just  and  mighty  Death  !  whom  none  could  advise,  thou  hast  persuaded  ; 
what  none  have  dared,  thou  hast  done  ;  and  whom  all  the  world  have  flattered,  thou  only 
hast  cast  out  and  despised  ;  thou  hast  drawn  together  all  the  far-stretched  greatness,  all 
the  pride,  cruelty  and  ambition  of  man,  and  covered  it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow 
words,  Hie  jacet. — Raleigh. 

(5)  Among  the  most  precious  gifts  with  which  the  Almighty  has  rewarded  us  for  our  dili 
gence  in  the  investigation  of  his  works  are  the  Telescope  and  the  Microscope.  They  came  as 
it  were  by  chance  5  they  came  we  know  not  how  ;  and  "  they  have  laid  open  the  infinite  in 
both  directions."     But  what  may  not  come  in  like  manner  5  when  from  the  situation  of  a 
pebble  may  be  learnt  the  state  of  the  earth,  many  myriads  of  ages  ago,  before  it  was  in 
habited  by  man  ;  and  when  the  fall  of  an  apple  to  the  ground  has  led  us  to  the  knowledge 
of  those  laws  which  regulate  every  world  as  it  revolves  in  its  orbit  ?  —  See  Sir  John 
Herschefs  excellent  Discourse  on  the  Study  of  Natural  Philosophy. 

(6)  How  much  is  it  to  be  lamented  that  the  greatest  benefactors  of  mankind,  being 
beyond  the  age  they  live  in,  are  so  seldom  understood  before  they  are  gone  ! 

(7)  Fancy  can  hardly  forbear  to  conjecture  with  what  temper  Milton  surveyed  the  silent 
progress  of  his  work,  and  marked  his  reputation  stealing  its  way  in  a  kind  of  subterrane 
ous  current  through  fear  and  silence.    I  cannot  but  conceive  him  calm  and  confident, 
little  disappointed,  not  at  all  dejected,  relying  on  his  own  merit  with  steady  consciousness, 
and  waiting,  without  impatience,  the  vicissitudes  of  opinion  and  the  impartiality  of  a 
future  generation.  — Johnson. 

After  this  line,  in  the  MS. 

O'er  place  and  time  we  triumph  ;  on  we  go, 
Ranging  at  will  the  realms  above,  below  ; 
Yet,  ah  !  how  little  of  ourselves  we  know  ! 

18 


206  NOTES. 


And  why  the  heart  beats  on,  or  how  the  brain 
Says  to  the  foot,  "  Now  move,  now  rest  again." 
From  age  to  age  we  search,  and  search  in  vain. 

(8)  An  allusion  to  John  Howard.      "  Wherever  he  came,  in  whatever  country,  the 
prisons  and  hospitals  were  thrown  open  to  him  as  to  the  general  censor.    Such  is  the 
force  of  pure  and  exalted  virtue  !  " 

(9)  Aristotle's  definition  of  Friendship,  "  one  soul  in  two  bodies,"  is  well  exemplified  by 
some  ancient  author  in  a  dialogue  between  Ajax  and  Achilles.     "  Of  all  the  wounds  you 
ever  received  in  battle,"  says  Ajax,  "  which  was  the  most  painful  to  you  ?  " — "  That  which 
I  received  from  Hector,"  replies  Achilles.  —  "  But  Hector  never  gave  you  a  wound  ?  " 
—  "  Yes,  and  a  mortal  one  ;  when  he  slew  my  friend,  Patroclus.5' 

(10)  This  light,  which  is  so  heavenly  in  its  lustre,  and  which  is  everywhere  and  on  every 
thing  when  we  look  round  us  on  our  arrival  here  ;  which,  while  it  lasts,  never  leaves  us, 
rejoicing  us  by  night  as  well  as  by  day  and  lighting  up  our  very  dreams  ;  yet,  when  it 
fades,  fades  so  fast,  and,  when  it  goes,  goes  out  forever,  —  we  may  address  it  in  the 
words  of  the  poet,  words  which  we  might  apply  so  often  in  this  transitory  life  : 

Too  soon  your  value  from  your  loss  we  learn  ! 

R.  Sharp's  Epistles  in  Perse,  ii. 

(11)  See  "Observations  on  a  Diamond  that  shines  in  the  dark."  —Boy le's  Works,  I. 
789 

(12)  Cicero,  in  his  Essay  De  Senectute,  has  drawn  his  images  from  the  better  walks  of 
life ;  and  Shakspeare,  in  his  Seven  Ages,  has  done  so  too.     But  Shakspeare  treats  his 
subject  satirically  ;  Cicero,  as  a  philosopher.    In  the  venerable  portrait  of  Cato  we  dis 
cover  no  traces  of  "  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon." 

Every  object  has  a  bright  and  a  dark  side  ;  and  I  have  endeavored  to  look  at  things  as 
Cicero  has  done.  By  some,  however,  I  may  be  thought  to  have  followed  too  much  my 
own  dream  of  happiness  ;  and  in  such  a  dream  indeed  I  have  often  passed  a  solitary 
hour.  It  was  castle-building  once  •,  now  it  is  no  longer  so.  But  whoever  would  try  to 
realize  it  would  not  perhaps  repent  of  his  endeavor. 

(13)  A  Persian  poet  has  left  us  a  beautiful  thought  on  this  subject,  which  the  reader,  if 
he  has  not  met  with  it,  will  be  glad  to  know,  and,  if  he  has,  to  remember. 

Thee  on  thy  mother's  knees,  a  new-born  child, 
In  tears  we  saw,  when  all  around  thee  smiled. 
So  live,  that,  sinking  in  thy  last  long  sleep, 
Smiles  may  be  thine,  when  all  around  thee  weep. 

(14)  The  anecdote  here  alluded  to  is  related  by  Valerius  Maximus,  Lib.  iv.  c.  4. 

05)  in  our  early  youth,  while  yet  we  live  only  among  those 'we  love,  we  love  without 
restraint,  arid  our  hearts  overflow  in  every  look,  word  and  action.  But  when  we  enter 
the  world,  and  are  repulsed  by  strangers,  forgotten  by  friends,  we  grow  more  and  more 
timid  in  our  approaches  even  to  those  we  love  best. 

liow  delightful  to  us,  then,  are  the  little  caresses  of  children  !  All  sincerity,  all  affec 
tion,  they  fly  into  our  arms  ;  and  then,  and  then  only,  do  we  feel  our  first  confidence, 
our  first  pleasure. 

(1C)  Tin's  is  a  law  of  nature.  Age  was  anciently  synonymous  with  power  ;  and  we  may 
always  observe  that  the  old  are  held  in  more  or  less  honor  as  men  are  more  or  less  virtu 
ous.  "  Shame,"  says  Homer,  "  bids  the  youth  beware  how  he  accosts  the  man  of  many 


NOTES.  207 


years."    "  Thou  shalt  rise  up  before  the  hoary  head,  and  honor  the  face  of  an  old  man." 

—  Leviticus. 

Among  us,  and  wherever  birth  and  possessions  give  rank  and  authority,  the  young  and 
the  profligate  are  seen  continually  above  the  old  and  the  worthy  ;  there  age  can  never 
find  its  due  respect.  But  among  many  of  the  ancient  nations  it  was  otherwise  ;  and  they 
reaped  the  benefit  of  it.  Rien  ne  maintient  plus  les  mceurs,  qu'une  extreme  subordina 
tion  des  jeunes  gens  envers  les  vieillards.  Les  uns  et  les  autres  seront  contenus,  ceuxlA 
par  le  respect  qu'ils  auront  pour  les  vieillards,  et  ceuxci  par  le  respect  qu'ils  auront  pour 
eux-memes.  —  Montesquieu. 

(17)  How  many  generations  have  passed  away,  how  many  empires  and  how  many  lan 
guages,  since  Homer  sung  his  verses  to  the  Greeks  !     Yet  the  words  which  he  uttered,  and 
which  were  only  so  much  fleeting  tyrcath,  remain  almost  entire  to  this  day,  and  will  now, 
in  all  probability,  continue  to  delight  and  instruct  mankind  as  long  as  the  world  endures. 

(18)  Before  I  went  into  Germany,  I  came  to  Brodegate  in  Leicestershire,  to  take  my 
leave  of  that  noble  Lady  Jane  Grey,  to  whom  I  was  exceeding  much  beholding.     Her 
parents,  the  duke  and  duchess,  with  all  the  household,  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen,  were 
hunting  in  the  park.     I  found  her  in  her  chamber  reading  Phsedo  Platonis  in  Greek,  and 
that  with  as  much  delight  as  some  gentlemen  would  read  a  merry  tale  in  Boccace.     After 
salutation,  and  duty  done,  with  some  other  talk,  I  asked  her  why  she  would  lose  such 
pastime  in  the  park  ?     Smiling,  she  answered  me,  "  I  wist,  all  their  sport  in  the  park  is 
but  a  shadow  to  that  pleasure  which  I  find  in  Plato."  —  Roger  Ascham. 

(19)  Dante  in  his  old  age  was  pointed  out  to  Petrarch  when  a  boy  ;  and  Dryden  to 
Pope. 

Who  does  not  wish  that  Dante  and  Dryden  could  have  known  the  value  of  the  homage 
that  was  paid  them,  and  foreseen  the  greatness  of  their  young  admirers  ? 

(20)  He  had  arrived  at  Naples,  and  was  preparing  to  visit  Sicily  and  Greece,  when,  hear 
ing  of  the  troubles  in  England,  he  thought  it  proper  to  hasten  home. 

(21)  I  began  thus  far  to  assent  ...  to  an  inward  prompting  which  now  grew  daily 
upon  me,  that  by  labor  and  intent  study  (which  I  take  to  be  my  portion  in  this  life),  joined 
with  the  strong  propensity  of  nature,  I  might  perhaps  leave  something  so  written  to  after- 
times  as  they  should  not  willingly  let  it  die.  —  Milton. 

Nor  can  his  wish  be  unfulfilled.  Calumniated  in  his  lifetime  and  writing  what  few 
would  read,  he  left  it  to  a  voice  which  none  could  silence,  —  a  voice  which  would  deliver 
it  to  all  nations,  —in  the  Old  World  and  the  New. 

A  good  book  (to  quote  his  own  words)  is  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master  spirit,  and  to 
destroy  it  is  to  slay  an  immortality  rather  than  a  life. 

(22)  Love  and  devotion  are  said  to  be  nearly  allied.    Boccaccio  fell  in  love  at  Naples  in 
the  church  of  St.  Lorenzo  ;  as  Petrarch  had  done  at  Avignon  in  the  church  of  St.  Glair. 

(23)  Is  it  not  true  that  the  young  not  only  appear  to  be,  but  really  are,  most  beautiful  in 
the  presence  of  those  they  love  ?    It  calls  forth  all  their  beauty. 

(24)  Xenophon  has  left  us  a  delightful  instance  of  conjugal  affection. 

The  King  of  Armenia  not  fulfilling  his  promise,  Cyrus  entered  the  country,  and  having 
taken  him  and  all  his  family  prisoners,  ordered  them  instantly  before  him.  Armenian, 
said  he,  you  are  free  ;  for  you  are  now  sensible  of  your  error.  And  what  will  you  give 
me,  if  I  restore  your  wife  to  you  ? —  All  that  I  am  able.  — What,  if  I  restore  your  children  ? 

—  All  that  I  am  able.  — And  you,  Tigranes,  said  he,  turning  to  the  son,  what  would  you  do 
to  save  your  wife  from  servitude  ?    Now,  Tigranes  was  but  lately  married,  and  had  a  great 


208  NOTES. 


love  for  his  wife.    Cyrus,  he  replied,  to  save  her  from  servitude,  I  would  willingly  lay 
down  my  life. 

Let  each  have  his  own  again,  said  Cyrus  ;  and,  when  he  was  departed,  one  spoke  of 
his  clemency,  and  another  of  his  valor,  and  another  of  his  beauty  and  the  graces  of  his 
person.  Upon  which  Tigraues  asked  his  wife  if  she  thought  him  handsome.  Really,  said 
she,  I  did  not  look  at  him. —  At  whom  then  did  you  look  ? —  At  him  who  said  he  would  lay 
down  his  life  for  me.  —  Cyropcedia,  L.  III. 

(25)  "  When  such  is  the  ruling,  the  habitual  sentiment  of  our  minds,"  says  Paley,  "  the 
world  becomes  a  temple,  and  life  itself  one  continued  act  of  worship."  We  breathe  aspira 
tions  all  day  long. 

(20)  Hers  the  mournful  privilege,  "  adsidere  valetudini,  fovere  deficientem,  satiari 
vultu,  complexu."  —  Tacitus. 

(-'7)  We  may  have  many  friends  in  life  ;  but  we  can  only  have  one  mother  5  "  a  discov 
ery,"  says  Gray,  "  which  I  never  made  till  it  was  too  late." 

The  child  is  no  sooner  born  than  he  clings  to  his  mother  ;  nor,  while  she  lives,  is  her 
image  absent  from  him  in  the  hour  of  his  distress.  Sir  John  Moore,  when  he  fell  from  his 
horse  in  the  battle  of  Corunna,  faltered  out  with  his  dying  breath  some  message  to  his 
mother  5  and  who  can  forget  the  last  words  of  Conradin,  when,  in  his  fifteenth  year,  he 
was  led  forth  to  die  at  Naples,  "  0  my  mother  !  how  great  will  be  your  grief,  when  you 
hear  of  it  !  " 

(28)  How  exquisite  are  those  lines  of  Petrarch  ! 

Le  crespe  chiome  d'or  puro  lucente, 
E'l  lampeggiar  d'ell  angelico  riso, 
Che  solean  far  in  terr£  un  paradiso, 
Poca  polvere  son,  che  nulla  sente. 

(29)  These  circumstances,  as  well  as  some  others  that  follow,  are  happily,  as  far  as  they 
regard  England,  of  an  ancient  date.    To  us  the  miseries  inflicted  by  a  foreign  invader 
are  now  known  only  by  description.     Many  generations  have  passed  away  since  our 
country-women  saw  the  smoke  of  an  enemy's  camp. 

But  the  same  passions  are  always  at  work  everywhere,  and  their  effects  are  always 
nearly  the  same  5  though  the  circumstances  that  attend  them  are  infinitely  various. 

(30)  Si  tout  cela  consistoit  en  faits,  en  actions,  en  paroles,  on  pourroit  le  decrire  et  le 
rendre  en  quelque  fa^on  :   mais  comment  dire  ce  qui  n'etoit  ni  dit,  ni  fait,  ni  pense  m&ne, 
mais  goiite,  mais  senti.     Le  vrai  bouheur  ne  se  decrit  pas.  — Rousseau. 

(31)  How  welcome  to  an  old  man  is  the  society  of  a  young  one  !    He,  who  is  here  men 
tioned,  would  propose  a  walk  wherever  we  were,  unworthy  as  I  was  of  his  notice  ;  and 
one  as  great,  if  not  greater,  when  we  were  interrupted  in  his  library  at  St.  Anne's,  and  I 
withdrew  but  for  a  moment  to  write  down  what  I  wished  so  much  to  remember,  would  say 
when  I  returned,  "  Why  do  you  leave  me  ?  "  words  which  few  would  forget,  and  which 
come  again  and  again  to  me  when  half  a  century  is  gone  by. 

(32)  So  many  pathetic  affections  are  awakened  by  every  exercise  of  social  devotion,  that 
most  men,  I  believe,  carry  away  from  public  worship  a  better  temper  towards  the  rest  of 
mankind  than  they  brought  with  them.     Having  all  one  interest  to  secure,  one  Lord  to 
serve,  one  judgment  to  look  forward  to,  we  cannot  but  remember  our  common  relation 
ship,  and  our  natural  equality  is  forced  upon  our  thoughts.     The  distinctions  of  civil  life 
are  almost  always  insisted  upon  too  much,  and  whatever  conduces  to  restore  the  level  im 
proves  the  character  on  both  sides.    If  ever  the  poor  man  holds  up  his  head,  it  is  at 


NOTES.  209 


church  ;  if  ever  the  rich  man  looks  upon  him  with  respect,  it  is  there;  and  both  will  be  the 
better  the  oftener  they  meet  where  the  feeling  of  superiority  is  mitigated  in  the  one  and 
the  spirit  of  the  other  is  erected  and  confirmed.  — Paley. 

(33)  A  custom  in  some  of  our  country  churches. 

(34)  An  English  breakfast ;  which  may  well  excite  in  others  what  in  Rousseau  continued 
through  life,   un  gout  vif  pour   les  dejeunes.      C'est  le  temps  de  la  journee  ou  nous 
sommes  le  plus  tranquilles,  oii  nous  causons  le  plus  a  notre  aise. 

The  luxuries  here  mentioned,  familiar  to  us  as  they  now  are,  were  almost  unknown 
before  the  Revolution. 

(35)  He  who  resolves  to  rise  in  the  world  by  politics  or  religion  can  degrade  his  mind  to 
any  degree,  when  he  sets  about  it.     Overcome  the  first  scruple,  and  the  work  is  done. 
"  You  hesitate,"  said  one  who  spoke  from  experience.     "  Put  on  the  mask,  young  man  ; 
and  in  a  very  little  while  you  will  not  know  it  from  your  own  face." 

(30)  Zeuxis  is  said  to  have  drawn  his  Helen  from  an  assemblage  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  ;  and  many  a  writer  of  fiction,  in  forming  a  life  to  his  mind,  has  recourse  to  the 
brightest  moments  in  the  lives  of  others. 

I  may  be  suspected  of  having  done  so  here,  and  of  having  designed,  as  it  were,  from 
living  models  ;  but,  by  making  an  allusion  now  and  then  to  those  who  have  really  lived,  I 
thought  I  should  give  something  of  interest  to  the  picture,  as  well  as  better  illustrate  my 
meaning. 

(37)  "By  the  Mass  !  "  said  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  to  Sir  Thomas  More,  "by  the  Mass  ! 
Master  More,  it  is  perilous  striving  with  princes  ;  the  anger  of  a  prince  is  death." — "  And 
is  that  all,  my  lord  ?  then  the  difference  between  you  and  me  is  but  this  —  That  I  shall 
die  to-day,  and  you  to-morrow."  —  Roper's  Life. 

(38)  Traitor's  gate,  the  water-gate  in  the  Tower  of  London. 

(39)  This  very  slight  sketch  of  Civil  Dissension  is  taken  from  our  own  annals  5  but,  for 
an  obvious  reason,  not  from  those  of  our  own  age. 

The  persons  here  immediately  alluded  to  lived  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  in  a 
reign  which  Blackstone  has  justly  represented  as  wicked,  sanguinary  and  turbulent  ; 
but  such  times  have  always  afforded  the  most  signal  instances  of  heroic  courage  and 
ardent  affection. 

Great  reverses,  like  theirs,  lay  open  the  human  heart.  They  occur  indeed  but  seldom  ; 
yet  all  men  are  liable  to  them  ;  all,  when  they  occur  to  others,  make  them  more  or  less  their 
own  ;  and,  were  we  to  describe  our  condition  to  an  inhabitant  of  some  other  planet,  could 
we  omit  what  forms  so  striking  a  circumstance  in  human  life  ?  , 

(40)  A  prisoner,  prosecuted  for  high  treason,  may  now  make  his  defence  by  counsel.    In 
the  reign  of  William  the  Third  the  law  was  altered  5  and  it  was  in  rising  to  urge  the 
necessity  of  an  alteration,  that  Lord  Shuftesbury,  with  such  admirable  quickness,  took 
advantage  of  the  embarrassment  that  seized  him.     "  If  I,"  said  he,  "  who  rise  only  to  give 
my  opinion  of  this  bill,  am  so  confounded  that  I  cannot  say  what  I  intended,  what  must  be 
tlie  condition  of  that  man,  who,  without  any  assistance,  is  pleading  for  his  life  ?  " 

(41)  Lord  Russell.    May  I  have  somebody  to  write,  to  assist  my  memory  ? 
Mr.  Attorney  General.    Yes,  a  servant. 

Lord  Chief  Justice.    Any  of  your  servants  shall  assist  you  in  writing  anything  you 
please  for  you. 
Lord  Russell.    My  wife  is  here,  my  Lord,  to  do  it.  —  State  Trials,  II. 


210  NOTES. 

(42)  gee  the  Alcestis  of  Euripides,  v.  194. 

(43)  Such  as  Russell  found  in  Cavendish  ;  and  such  as  many  have  found. 

(44)  An  allusion  to  the  last  interview  of  Sir  Thomas  More  and  his  daughter  Margaret. 
"  Dear  Meg,"  said  he,  when  afterwards  with  a  coal  he  wrote  to  bid  her  farewell,  "  I  never 
liked  your  manner  towards  me  better  ;  for  I  like  when  daughterly  love  and  dear  charity 
have  no  leisure  to  look  to  worldly  courtesy."  —  Roper's  Life. 

(45)  Epaminondas,  after  his  victory  at  Leuctra,  rejoiced  most  of  all  at  the  pleasure  which 
it  would  give  his  father  and  mother  ;  and  who  would  not  have  envied  them  their  feelings  ? 

Cornelia  was  called  at  Rome  the  mother-in-law  of  Scipio.  "  When,"  said  she  to  her 
sons,  "  shall  I  be  called  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi  ?  " 

(4C)  At  ilia  quanti  sunt,  animum  tanquam  emeritis  stipendiis  libidinis,  ambitionis,  con- 
tentionis,  inimicitiarum,  cupiditatum  omnium,  securn  esse,  secumque  (ut  dicitur)  vivere  ? 
—  Cic  de  Senectute. 

(4~)  Hinc  ubi  jam  emissum  caveis  ad  sidera  coeli 
Nare  per  sestatem  liquidam  suspexeris  agmen, 
Contemplator.  —  Virg. 

(4S)  Richard  the  First.  For  the  romantic  story  here  alluded  to  we  are  indebted  to  the 
French  chroniclers.  —  See  Fauchet.  Recueil  de  1'Origine  de  la  Langue  et  Pot?sie  Fr. 

(4!))  She  was  under  all  her  sails,  and  looked  less  like  a  ship  incrusted  with  ice  than  ice  in 
the  fashion  of  a  ship.  —  See  the  Voyage  of  Captain  Thomas  James,  in  1631. 

(50)  An  act  of  filial  piety  represented  on  the  coins  of  Catana,  a  Greek  city,  some  remains 
of  which  are  still  to  be  seen  at  the  foot  of  Mount  ^Etna.*     The  story  is  told  of  two  brothers 
who,  in  this  manner,  saved  both  their  parents.     The  place  from  which  they  escaped  was 
long  called  the  field  of  the  pious  ;  and  public  games  were  annually  held  there  to  com 
memorate  the  event. 

(51)  What  a  pleasing  picture  of  domestic  life  is  given  to  us  by  Bishop  Berkeley  in  his 
letters  !     "  The  more  we  have  of  good  instruments,  the  better  ;  for  all  my  children,  not  ex 
cepting  my  little  daughter,  learn  to  play,  and  are  preparing  to  fill  my  house  with  harmony 
against  all  events  ,  that,  if  we  have  worse  times,  we  may  have  better  spirits." 

(52)  See  the  Alcestis  of  Euripides,  v.  328. 

(53)  How  often,  says  an  excellent  writer,  do  we  err  in  our  estimate  of  happiness  !    When 
I  hear  of  a  man  who  lias  noble  parks,  splendid  palaces,  and  every  luxury  in  life,  I  always 
inquire  whom  he  has  to  love  ;  and,  if  I  find  he  has  nobody,  or  does  not  love  those  he  has, 
in  the  midst  of  all  his  grandeur  I  pronounce  him  a  being  in  deep  adversity. 

(54)  Cicero.     It  is  remarkable  that,  among  the  comforts  of  old  age,  he  has  not  mentioned 
those  arising  from  the  society  of  women  and  children.     Perhaps  the  husband  of  Terentia 
and  "  the  father  of  Marcus  felt  something  on  the  subject,  of  which  he  was  willing  to  spare 
himself  the  recollection." 

(55)  An  old  writer  breaks  off  in  a  very  lively  manner  at  a  later  hour  of  the  night.    "  But 
the  Hyades  run  low  in  the  heavens,  and  to  keep  our  eyes  open  any  longer  were  to  act  our 
Antipodes.    The  huntsmen  are  up  in  America,  and  they  are  already  past  their  first  sleep 
in  Persia." 

•  It  is  introduced  also,  and  very  happily,  by  two  great  masters;  by  Virgil  in  the  Sack  of  Troy,  and 
by  Raphael  ia  the  Incendio  di  Bui^o. 


NOTES.  211 


Before  I  conclude  I  would  say  something  in  favor  of  the  old-fashioned  triplet,  which  I 
have  here  ventured  to  use  so  often.  Dryden  seems  to  have  delighted  in  it,  and  in  many 
of  his  poems  lias  used  it  much  oftener  than  I  have  done,  as  for  instance  in  the  Hind  and 
Panther,*  and  in  Theodore  and  Honoria,  where  he  introduces  it  three,  four  and  even  five 
times  in  succession. 

If  I  have  erred  anywhere  in  the  structure  of  my  verse  from  a  desire  to  follow  yet  earlier 
end  higher  examples,  I  rely  on  the  forgiveness  of  those  in  whose  ear  the  music  of  our 
'old  versification  is  still  sounding. j 

»  Pope  used  to  mention  this  poem  as  the  most  correct  specimen  of  Dryden's  versification.  It  was, 
indeed,  written  when  he  had  completely  formed  his  manner,  and  may  be  supposed  to  exhibit,  negli 
gence  excepted,  his  deliberate  and  ultimate  scheme  of  metre.  —  Johnson. 

t  With  regard  to  trisyllables,  as  their  accent  is  very  rarely  on  the  last,  they  cannot  properly  be  any 
rhymes  at  all  ;  yet  nevertheless  I  highly  commend  those  who  have  judiciously  and  sparingly  introduced 
them  as  such.-  Gray. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


ODE  TO   SUPERSTITION.1 


HENCE  to  the  realms  of  Night,  dire  Demon,  hence ! 

Thy  chain  of  adamant  can  bind 

That  little  world,  the  human  mind, 
And  sink  its  noblest  powers  to  impotence. 

Wake  the  lion's  loudest  roar, 

Clot  his  shaggy  mane  with  gore, 

With  flashing  fury  bid  his  eye-balls  shine ; 

Meek  is  his  savage,  sullen  soul,  to  thine  ! 

Thy  touch,  thy  deadening  touch,  has  steeled  the  breast, 

Whence,  through  her  April-shower,  soft  Pity  smiled ; 

Has  closed  the  heart  each  godlike  virtue  blessed, 

To  all  the  silent  pleadings  of  his  child." 

At  thy  command  he  plants  the  dagger  deep, 
At  thy  command  exults,  though  Nature  bids  him  weep  ! 


When,  with  a  frown  that  froze  the  peopled  earth,' 
Thou  dartedst  thy  huge  head  from  high, 
Night  waved  her  banners  o'er  the  sky, 

And,  brooding,  gave  her  shapeless  shadows  birth. 


216  ODE    TO    SUPERSTITION. 

Rocking  on  the  billowy  air, 
Ha  !  what  withering  phantoms  glare  ! 
As  blows  the  blast  with  many  a  sudden  swell, 
At  each  dead  pause,  what  shrill-toned  voices  yell  ' 
The  sheeted  spectre,  rising  from  the  tomb, 
Points  to  the  murderer's  stab,  and  shudders  by ; 
In  every  grove  is  felt  a  heavier  gloom, 
That  veils  its  genius  from  the  vulgar  eye : 
The  spirit  of  the  water  rides  the  storm, 
And,  through  the  mist,  reveals  the  terrors  of  his  form. 

I.  3. 

O'er  solid  seas,  where  Winter  reigns, 
And  holds  each  mountain- wave  in  chains, 
The  fur-clad  savage,  ere  he  guides  his  deer 
By  glistering  star-light  through  the  snow, 
Breathes  softly  in  her  wondering  ear 
Each  potent  spell  thou  bad'st  him  know. 

By  thee  inspired,  on  India's  sands, 

Full  in  the  sun  the  Brahmin  stands ; 
And,  while  the  panting  tigress  hies 
To  quench  her  fever  in  the  stream, 
His  spirit  laughs  in  agonies, 

Smit  by  the  scorchings  of  the  noontide  beam. 
Mark  who  mounts  the  sacred  pyre,4 
Blooming  in  her  bridal  vest : 

She  hurls  the  torch !  *she  fans  the  fire  ! 

To  die  is  to  be  blest : 
She  clasps  her  lord  to  part  no  more, 
And,  sighing,  sinks  !  but  sinks  to  soar. 
O'ershadowing  Scotia's  desert  coast, 
The  Sisters  sail  in  dusky  state,5 


ODE   TO    SUPERSTITION.  217 

And,  wrapt  in  clouds,  in  tempests  tost, 

Weave  the  airy  web  of  Fate ; 
While  the  lone  shepherd,  near  the  shipless  main,6 
Sees  o'er  her  hills  advance  the  long-drawn  funeral  train. 

n.  i. 

Thou  spak'st,  and,  lo  !  a  new  creation  glowed. 
Each  unhewn  mass  of  living  stone 
Was  clad  in  horrors  not  its  own, 
And  at  its  base  the  trembling  nations  bowed. 
Giant  Error,  darkly  grand, 
Grasped  the  globe  with  iron  hand. 
Circled  with  seats  of  bliss,  the  Lord  of  Light 
Saw  prostrate  worlds  adore  his  golden  height. 
The  statue,  waking  with  immortal  powers,7 
Springs  from  its  parent  earth,  and  shakes  the  spheres ; 
The  indignant  pyramid  sublimely  towers, 
And  braves  the  efforts  of  a  host  of  years. 
Sweet  Music  breathes  her  soul  into  the  wind ; 
And  bright-eyed  Painting  stamps  the  image  of  the  mind. 

II.  2. 

Eound  the  rude  ark  old  Egypt's  sorcerers  rise ! 
A  timbrelled  anthem  swells  the  gale, 
And  bids  the  God  of  Thunders  hail  ;8 
With  lowings  loud  the  captive  god  replies. 
Clouds  of  incense  woo  thy  smile, 
Scaly  monarch  of  the  Nile  ! 9 
But,  ah  !  what  myriads  claim  the  bended  knee  ! 10 
Go,  count  the  busy  drops  that  swell  the  sea. 
Proud  land !  what  eye  can  trace  thy  mystic  lore, 
Locked  up  in  characters  as  dark  as  night  ?u 
19 


218  ODE   TO    SUPERSTITION. 

What  eye  those  long,  long  labyrinths  dare  explore,12 
To  which  the  parted  soul  oft  wings  her  flight ; 
Again  to  visit  her  cold  cell  of  clay, 
Charmed  with  perennial  sweets,  and  smiling  at  decay  ? 

II.  3. 

On  yon  hoar  summit,  mildly  bright1'" 
With  purple  ether's  liquid  light, 
High  o'er  the  world,  the  white-robed  Magi  gaze 
On  dazzling  bursts  of  heavenly  fire  ; 
Start  at  each  blue,  portentous  blaze, 
Each  flame  that  flits  with  adverse  spire. 
But  say,  what  sounds  my  ear  invade 
From  Delphi's  venerable  shade  ? 
The  temple  rocks,  the  laurel  waves  ! 
"  The  god  !  the  god  !  "  the  Sibyl  cries.14 
Her  figure  swells  !  she  foams,  she  raves  ! 
Her  figure  swells  to  more  than  mortal  size ! 
Streams  of  rapture  roll  along, 
Silver  notes  ascend  the  skies  : 
Wake,  Echo,  wake  and  catch  the  song, 

0,  catch  it,  ere  it  dies  ! 
The  Sibyl  speaks,  the  dream  is  o'er, 
The  holy  harpings  charm  no  more. 
In  vain  she  checks  the  god's  control ; 
His  madding  spirit  fills  her  frame, 
And  moulds  the  features  of  her  soul, 

Breathing  a  prophetic  flame. 
The  cavern  frowns ;  its  hundred  mouths  unclose  ! 
And,  in  the  thunder's  voice,  the  fate  of  empire  flows ! 


ODE  TO    SUPERSTITION.  219 

HI.  i. 

Mona,  thy  Druid-rites  awake  the  dead ! 
Rites  thy  brown  oaks  would  never  dare 

Even  whisper  to  the  idle  air ; 
Rites  that  have  chained  old  Ocean  on  his  bed. 

Shivered  by  thy  piercing  glance, 

Pointless  falls  the  hero's  lance. 
Thy  magic  bids  the  imperial  eagle  fly,15 
And  blasts  the  laureate  wreath  of  victory. 
Hark,  the  bard's  soul  inspires  the  vocal  string ! 
At  every  pause  dread  Silence  hovers  o'er : 
While  murky  Night  sails  round  on  raven  wing, 
Deepening  the  tempest's  howl,  the  torrent's  roar ; 
Chased  by  the  Morn  from  Snowdon's  awful  brow, 
Where  late  she  sate  and  scowled  on  the  black  wave  below. 

III.  2. 

Lo  !   steel-clad  War  his  gorgeous  standard  rears ! 

The  red-cross  squadrons  madly  rage,10 

And  mow  through  infancy  and  age ; 
Then  kiss  the  sacred  dust  and  melt  in  tears. 

Veiling  from  the  eye  of  day, 

Penance  dreams  her  life  away  ; 
In  cloistered  solitude  she  sits  and  sighs, 
While  from  eacli  shrine  still,  small  responses  rise. 
Hear,  with  what  heartfelt  beat  the  midnight  bell 
Swings  its  slow  summons  through  the  hollow  pile ! 
The  weak,  wan  votarist  leaves  her  twilight  cell, 
To  walk,  with  taper  dim,  the  winding  aisle  ; 
With  choral  chantings  vainly  to  aspire 
Beyond  this  nether  sphere,  on  Rapture's  wing  of  fire. 


220  ODE    TO    SUPERSTITION. 

III.  3. 

Lord  of  each  pang  the  nerves  can  feel, 
Hence  with  the  rack  and  reeking  wheel. 
Faith  lifts  the  soul  above  this  little  ball ! 
While  gleams  of  glory  open  round, 
And  circling  choirs  of  angels  call, 
Canst  thou,  with  all  thy  terrors  crowned, 
Hope  to  obscure  that  latent  spark, 
Destined  to  shine  when  suns  are  dark  ? 
Thy  triumphs  cease  !  through  every  land, 
Hark  !  Truth  proclaims,  thy  triumphs  cease  ! 
Her  heavenly  form,  with  glowing  hand, 
Benignly  points  to  piety  and  peace. 
Flushed  with  youth,  her  looks  impart 

Each  fine  feeling  as  it  flows ; 
Her  voice  the  echo  of  a  heart 

Pure  as  the  mountain  snows  : 
Celestial  transports  round  her  play, 
And  softly,  sweetly  die  away. 
She  smiles  !  and  where  is  now  the  cloud 
That  blackened  o'er  thy  baleful  reign? 
Grim  darkness  furls  his  leaden  shroud, 

Shrinking  from  her  glance  in  vain. 
Her  touch  unlocks  the  day-spring  from  above, 
And,  lo  !  it  visits  man  with  beams  of  light  and  love. 


THE   SAILOR.  221 


THE  SAILOR. 

1780. 

THE  Sailor  sighs  as  sinks  his  native  shore, 
As  all  its  lessening  turrets  bluely  fade ; 

He  climbs  the  mast  to  feast  his  eye  once  more, 
And  busy  Fancy  fondly  lends  her  aid. 

Ah  !  now,  each  dear,  domestic  scene  he  knew, 
Recalled  and  cherished  in  a  foreign  clime, 

Charms  with  the  magic  of  a  moonlight  view ; 
Its  colors  mellowed,  not  impaired,  by  time. 

True  as  the  needle,  homeward  points  his  heart, 
Through  all  the  horrors  of  the  stormy  main ; 

This,  the  last  wish  that  would  with  life  depart, 
To  meet  the  smile  of  her  he  loves  again. 

When  Morn  first  faintly  draws  her  silver  line. 
Or  Eve's  gray  cloud  descends  to  drink  the  wave ; 

When  sea  and  sky  in  midnight  darkness  join, 
Still,  still  he  sees  the  parting  look  she  gave. 

Her  gentle  spirit,  lightly  hovering  o'er, 
Attends  his  little  bark  from  pole  to  pole ; 

And,  when  the  beating  billows  round  him  roar, 
Whispers  sweet  hope  to  soothe  his  troubled  soul. 

Carved  is  her  name  in  many  a  spicy  grove, 
In  many  a  plantain-forest,  waving  wide ; 

Where  dusky  youths  in  painted  plumage  rove, 
And  giant  palms  o'erarch  the  golden  tide. 
19* 


222  A  WISH. 

But,  lo  !  at  last  he  comes  with  crowded  sail ! 

Lo  !  o'er  the  cliff  what  eager  figures  bend  ! 
And  harkj  what  mingled  murmurs  swell  the  gale  ! 

In  each  he  hears  the  welcome  of  a  friend. 

'T  is  she,  't  is  she  herself !  she  waves  her  hand  ! 

Soon  is  the  anchor  cast,  the  canvas  furled ; 
Soon  through  the  whitening  surge  he  springs  to  land, 
And  clasps  the  maid  he  singled  from  the  world. 


A  WISH. 

MINE  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 

A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear ; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 

With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch, 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 

Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 

Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew ; 

And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village  church,  among  the  trees, 

Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  given, 

With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


THE   ALPS  AT   DAY-BREAK.  223 


AN  ITALIAN  SONG. 

DEAR  is  my  little  native  vale, 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there ; 
Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 
The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree. 
And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange-groves  and  myrtle-bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 

I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 

With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound  ; 

Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave, 

For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day, 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 

The  canzonet  and  roundelay 

Sung  in  the  silent  green- wood  shade  ; 

These  simple  joys,  that  never  fail, 

Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 


THE  ALPS  AT  DAY-BREAK. 

THE  sunbeams  streak  the  azure  skies, 

And  line  with  light  the  mountain's  brow : 

With  hounds  and  horns  the  hunters  rise, 
And  chase  the  roebuck  through  the  snow. 


224  ON    A   TEAR. 

From  rock  to  rock,  with  giant-bound, 
High  on  their  iron  poles  they  pass  • 

Mute,  lest  the  air,  convulsed  by  sound, 
Rend  from  above  a  frozen  mass. 

The  goats  wind  slow  their  wonted  way, 
Up  craggy  steeps  and  ridges  rude  ; 

Marked  by  the  wild  wolf  for  his  prey, 
From  desert  cave  or  hanging  wood. 

And  while  the  torrent  thunders  loud, 
And  as  the  echoing  cliffs  reply, 

The  huts  peep  o'er  the  morning-cloud, 
Perched,  like  an  eagle's  nest,  on  high. 


ON  x\  TEAR. 

0  !  THAT  the  chemist's  magic  art 

Could  crystallize  this  sacred  treasure  ! 

Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell, 

Its  lustre  caught  from  CHLOE'S  eye; 

Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell  — 
The  spring  of  Sensibility  ! 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light  ! 

In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine ; 
More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright, 

Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 


WRITTEN    IN   A   SICK   CHAMBER.  225 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul  ! 

Who  ever  fly'st  to  bring  relief, 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 

Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme, 

In  every  clime,  in  every  age  ; 
Thou  charm' st  in  Fancy's  idle  dream, 

In  Reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law ir  which  moulds  a  tear, 

And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere, 

And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  SICK  CHAMBER. 

1793. 

THERE,  in  that  bed  so  closely  curtained  round, 
Worn  to  a  shade  and  wan  with  slow  decay, 

A  father  sleeps  !  0,  hushed  be  every  sound  ! 
Soft  may  we  breathe  the  midnight  hours  away  ! 

He  stirs — yet  still  he  sleeps.     May  heavenly  dreams 
Long  o'er  his  smooth  and  settled  pillow  rise ; 

Nor  fly,  till  morning  through  the  shutter  streams, 
And  on  the  hearth  the  glimmering  rush-light  dies  ! 


226  TO   TWO   SISTERS. 


TO   TWO   SISTERS.is 

1795. 

WELL  may  you  sit  within,  and,  fond  of  grief, 
Look  in  each  other's  face,  and  melt  in  tears. 

Well  may  you  shun  all  counsel,  all  relief. 

0,  she  was  great  in  mind,  though  young  in  years  ! 

Changed  is  that  lovely  countenance,  which  shed 
Light  when  she  spoke :  and  kindled  sweet  surprise, 

As  o'er  her  frame  each  warm  emotion  spread, 
Played  round  her  lips,  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

Those  lips  so  pure,  that  moved  but  to  persuade. 
Still  to  the  last  enlivened  and  endeared. 

Those  eyes  at  once  her  secret  soul  conveyed, 
And  ever  beamed  delight  when  you  appeared. 

Yet  has  she  fled  the  life  of  bliss  below, 

That  youthful  Hope  in  bright  perspective  drew  ? 

False  were  the  tints  !  false  as  the  feverish  glow 
That  o'er  her  burning  cheek  Distemper  threw  ! 

And  now  in  joy  she  dwells,  in  glory  moves  ! 

(Glory  and  joy  reserved  for  you  to  share.) 
Far,  far  more  blest  in  blessing  those  she  loves, 

Than  they,  alas  !  unconscious  of  her  care. 


TO    A   FRIEND    ON   HIS   MARRIAGE.  227 


TO   A   FRIEND    ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 

ON  thee,  blest  youth,  a  father's  hand  confers 
The  maid  thy  earliest,  fondest  wishes  knew. 

Each  soft  enchantment  of  the  soul  is  hers ; 
Thine  be  the  joys  to  firm  attachment  due. 

As  on  she  moves  with  hesitating  grace, 

She  wins  assurance  from  his  soothing  voice ; 

And,  with  a  look  the  pencil  could  not  trace, 

Smiles  through  her  blushes,  and  confirms  the  choice. 

Spare  the  fine  tremors  of  her  feeling  frame  ! 

To  thee  she  turns  — forgive  a  virgin's  fears  ! 
To  thee  she  turns  with  surest,  tenderest  claim ; 

Weakness  that  charms,  reluctance  that  endears  ! 

At  each  response  the  sacred  rite  requires, 

From  her  full  bosom  bursts  the  unbidden  sigh. 

A  strange  mysterious  awe  the  scene  inspires ; 
And  on  her  lips  the  trembling  accents  die. 

O'er  her  fair  face  what  wild  emotions  play  ! 

What  lights  and  shades  in  sweet  confusion  blend  ! 
Soon  shall  they  fly,  glad  harbingers  of  day, 

And  settled  sunshine  on  her  soul  descend  ! 

Ah  !  soon,  thine  own  confest,  ecstatic  thought ! 

That  hand  shall  strew  thy  summer-path  with  flowers ; 
And  those  blue  eyes,  with  mildest  lustre  fraught, 

Gild  the  calm  current  of  domestic  hours  ! 


228        WRITTEN   TO   BE   SPOKEN   BY  MRS.    SIDDONS. 


WRITTEN  TO  BE  SPOKEN  BY  MRS.   SIDDONS.19 

YES,  't  is  the  pulse  of  life  !  my  fears  were  vain; 
I  wake,  I  breathe,  and  am  myself  again. 
Still  in  this  nether  world ;  no  seraph  yet  ! 
Nor  walks  my  spirit,  when  the  sun  is  set, 
With  troubled  step  to  haunt  the  fatal  board, 
Where  I  died  last  —  by  poison  or  the  sword  ; 
Blanching  each  honest  cheek  with  deeds  of  night, 
Done  here  so  oft  by  dim  and  doubtful  light. 

—  To  drop  all  metaphor,  that  little  bell 
Called  back  reality,  and  broke  the  spell. 
No  heroine  claims  your  tears  with  tragic  tone  ; 
A  very  woman  —  scarce  restrains  her  own  ! 
Can  she,  with  fiction,  charm  the  cheated  mind, 
When  to  be  grateful  is  the  part  assigned  ? 
Ah,  no  !  she  scorns  the  trappings  of  her  art ; 
No  theme  but  truth,  no  prompter  but  the  heart  ! 

But,  Ladies,  say,  must  I  alone  unmask  ? 
Is  here  no  other  actress,  let  me  ask. 
Believe  me,  those,  who  best  the  heart  dissect, 
Know  every  woman  studies  stage-effect. 
She  moulds  her  manners  to  the  part  she  fills, 
As  Instinct  teaches,  or  as  Humor  wills  ; 
And,  as  the  grave  or  gay  her  talent  calls, 
Acts  in  the  drama,  till  the  curtain  falls. 

First,  how  her  little  breast  with  triumph  swells, 
When  the  red  coral  rings  its  golden  bells  ! 
To  play  in  pantomime  is  then  the  rage, 
Along  the  carpet's  many-colored  stage ; 


WRITTEN  TO   BE   SPOKEN   BY  MRS.    SIDDONS.       229 

Or  lisp  her  merry  thoughts  with  loud  endeavor, 
Now  here,  now  there, —  in  noise  and  mischief  ever  ! 

A  school-girl  next,  she  curls  her  hair  in  papers, 
And  mimics  father's  gout,  and  mother's  vapors  ; 
Discards  her  doll,  bribes  Betty  for  romances  ; 
Playful  at  church,  and  serious  when  she  dances  ; 
Tramples  alike  on  customs  and  on  toes, 
And  whispers  all  she  hears  to  all  she  knows ; 
Terror  of  caps,  and  wigs,  and  sober  notions ! 
A  romp  !  that  longest  of  perpetual  motions  ! 
—  Till,  tamed  and  tortured  into  foreign  graces, 
She  sports  her  lovely  face  at  public  places  ; 
And  with  blue,  laughing  eyes,  behind  her  fan, 
First  acts  her  part  with  that  great  actor,  MAN. 

Too  soon  a  flirt,  approach  her  and  she  flies  ! 
Frowns  when  pursued,  and,  when  entreated,  sighs ! 
Plays  with  unhappy  men  as  cats  with  mice : 
Till  fading  beauty  hints  the  late  advice. 
Her  prudence  dictates  what  her  pride  disdained, 
And  now  she  sues  to  slaves  herself  had  chained  ! 

Then  comes  that  good  old  character,  a  Wife, 
With  all  the  dear,  distracting  cares  of  life ; 
A  thousand  cards  a  day  at  doors  to  leave, 
And,  in  return,  a  thousand  cards  receive  ; 
Rouge  high,  play  deep,  to  lead  the  ton  aspire, 
With  nightly  blaze  set  PORTLAND-PLACE  on  fire  ; 
Snatch  half  a  glimpse  at  concert,  opera,  ball, 
A  meteor,  traced  by  none,  though  seen  by  all ; 
And,  when  her  shattered  nerves  forbid  to  roam, 
In  very  spleen  —  rehearse  the  girls  at  home. 

Last  the  gray  Dowager,  in  ancient  flounces, 
With  snuff  and  spectacles  the  age  denounces ; 
20 


230        WRITTEN   TO   BE   SPOKEN   BY   MRS.    SIDDONS. 

Boasts  how  the  sires  of  this  degenerate  Isle 
Knelt  for  a  look,  and  duelled  for  a  smile. 
The  scourge  and  ridicule  of  Goth  and  Vandal, 
Her  tea  she  sweetens,  as  she  sips,  with  scandal ; 
With  modern  belles  eternal  warfare  wages. 
Like  her  own  birds  that  clamor  from  their  cages ; 
And  shuffles  round  to  bear  her  tale  to  all, 
Like  some  old  Ruin,  "  nodding  to  its  fall ! " 

Thus  WOMAN  makes  her  entrance  and  her  exit; 
Not  least  an  actress  when  she  least  suspects  it. 
Yet  Nature  oft  peeps  out  and  mars  the  plot, 
Each  lesson  lost,  each  poor  pretence  forgot ; 
Full  oft,  with  energy  that  scorns  control, 
At  once  lights  up  the  features  of  the  soul ; 
Unlocks  each  thought  chained  down  by  coward  Art, 
And  to  full  day  the  latent  passions  start ! 
—  And  she,  whose  first,  best  wish  is  your  applause, 
Herself  exemplifies  the  truth  she  draws. 
Born  on  the  stage  —  through  every  shifting  scene, 
Obscure  or  bright,  tempestuous  or  serene, 
Still  has  your  smile  her  trembling  spirit  fired  ! 
And  can  she  act,  with  thoughts  like  these  inspired  ? 
No  !  from  her  mind  all  artifice  she  flings, 
All  skill,  all  practice,  now  unmeaning  things  ! 
To  you,  unchecked,  each  genuine  feeling  flows ; 
For  all  that  life  endears  —  to  you  she  owes. 


T0   *    *     *     *    *.  —  A   FAREWELL.  231 


Go  —  you  may  call  it  madness,  folly  ; 

You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away. 
There  's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy, 

I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 

0,  if  you  knew  the  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  my  bosom  when  I  sigh, 

You  would  not  rob  me  of  a  treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 


A   FAREWELL. 

ADIEU  !  A  long,  a  long  adieu  ! 

I  must  be  gone  while  yet  I  may. 
Oft  shall  I  weep  to  think  of  you ; 

But  here  I  will  not,  cannot  stay. 

The  sweet  expression  of  that  face, 
Forever  changing,  yet  the  same, 

Ah  no  !  I  dare  not  turn  to  trace. 
It  melts  my  soul,  it  fires  my  frame  ! 

Yet  give  me,  give  me,  ere  I  go, 
One  little  lock  of  those  so  blest, 

That  lend  your  cheek  a  warmer  glow, 
And  on  your  white  neck  love  to  rest. 

—  Say,  when,  to  kindle  soft  delight, 

That  hand  has  chanced  with  mine  to  meet, 

How  could  its  thrilling  touch  excite 
A  sigh  so  short,  and  yet  so  sweet  ? 


232  FROM  A  GREEK  EPIGRAM.  —  FROM  EURIPIDES. 

0  say  —  but  no,  it  must  not  be. 

Adieu  !    A  long,  a  long  adieu  ! 
—  Yet  still,  methinks,  you  frown  on  me; 

Or  never  could  I  fly  from  you. 


FROM  A   GREEK  EPIGRAM. 

WHILE  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels, 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall, 
See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals  ! 
0,  fly  !  —  yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. 
Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 
And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 


FROM  EURIPIDES. 

THERE  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock. 
The  village-girls,  singing  wild  madrigals, 
Dip  their  white  vestments  in  its  waters  clear, 
And  hang  them  to  the  sun.     There  first  we  met, 
There  on  that  day.     Her  dark  and  eloquent  eyes 
'T  was  heaven  to  look  upon  ;  and  her  sweet  voice, 
As  tunable  as  harp  of  many  strings, 
At  once  spoke  joy  and  sadness  to  my  soul ! 

Dear  is  that  valley  to  the  murmuring  bees  ; 
And  all,  who  know  it,  come  and  come  again. 
The  small  birds  build  there ;  and  at  summer-noon 
Oft  have  I  heard  a  child,  gay  among  flowers, 
As  in  the  shining  grass  she  sate  concealed, 
Sing  to  herself. 


CAPTIVITY. —  WRITTEN    AT   MIDNIGHT.  233 

FROM  AN  ITALIAN  SONNET. 

LOVE,  under  Friendship's  vesture  white, 
Laughs,  his  little  limbs  concealing ; 
And  oft  in  sport,  and  oft  in  spite, 
Like  Pity  meets  the  dazzled  sight, 
Smiles  through  his  tears  revealing. 

But  now  as  Rage  the  god  appears ! 
He  frowns,  and  tempests  shake  his  frame  !  — 
Frowning,  or  smiling,  or  in  tears, 
"£  is  Love ;  and  Love  is  still  the  same. 


CAPTIVITY. 

CAGED  in  old  woods,  whose  reverend  echoes  wake 
When  the  hern  screams  along  the  distant  lake, 
Her  little  heart  oft  flutters  to  be  free, 
Oft  sighs  to  turn  the  unrelenting  key. 
In  vain !  the  nurse  that  rusted  relic  wears, 
Nor  moved  by  gold  —  nor  to  be  moved  by  tears ; 
And  terraced  walls  their  black  reflection  throw 
On  the  green-mantled  moat  that  sleeps  below. 


WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

WHILE  through  the  broken  pane  the  tempest  sighs. 
And  my  step  falters  on  the  faithless  floor, 
Shades  of  departed  joys  around  me  rise, 
With  many  a  face  that  smiles  on  me  no  more ; 
With  many  a  voice  that  thrills  of  transport  gave, 
Now  silent  as  the  grass  that  tufts  their  grave  ! 
20* 


234  A    CHARACTER. —  TO    AX    OLD    OAK. 

A   CHARACTER. 

As  through  the  hedge-row  shade  the  violet  steals. 
And  the  sweet  air  its  modest  leaf  reveals ; 
Her  softer  charms,  but  by  their  influence  known, 
Surprise  all  hearts,  and  mould  them  to  her  own. 


TO   AN   OLD   OAK. 

TRUNK  of  a  giant  now  no  more  ! 
Once  did  thy  limbs  to  heaven  aspire  ; 
Once,  by  a  track  untried  before, 
Strike  as  resolving  to  explore 
Realms  of  infernal  fire.20 

Round  thee,  alas  !  no  shadows  move  ! 
From  thee  no  sacred  murmurs  breathe  ! 
Yet  within  thee,  thyself  a  grove, 
Once  did  the  eagle  scream  above, 
And  the  wolf  howl  beneath. 

There  once  the  red-cross  knight  reclined, 
His  resting-place,  a  house  of  prayer ; 
And,  when  the  death-bell  smote  the  wind 
From  towers  long  fled  by  human  kind, 
He  knelt  and  worshipped  there  ! 

Then  Culture  came,  and  days  serene ; 
And  village-sports,  and  garlands  gay. 
Full  many  a  pathway  crossed  the  green  ; 
And  maids  and  shepherd-youths  were  seen 
To  celebrate  the  May. 


TO  THE  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  OF  LADY  *  *  .   235 

Father  of  many  a  forest  deep, 
Whence  many  a  navy  thunder-fraught  ! 
Erst  in  thy  acorn-cells  asleep, 
Soon  destined  o'er  the  world  to  sweep, 
Opening  new  spheres  of  thought ! 

Wont  in  the  night  of  woods  to  dwell, 
The  holy  Druid  saw  thee  rise  ; 
And,  planting  there  the  guardian-spell, 
Sung  forth,  the  dreadful  pomp  to  swell 
Of  human  sacrifice  ! 

Thy  singed  top  and  branches  bare 
Now  straggle  in  the  evening-sky  ; 
And  the  wan  moon  wheels  round  to  glare 
On  the  long  corse  that  shivers  there 
Of  him  who  came  to  die  ! 


TO   THE  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER   OF  LADY  *  * 

1800. 

AH  !  why  with  tell-tale  tongue  reveal 21 
What  most  her  blushes  would  conceal  ? 
Why  lift  that  modest  veil  to  trace 
The  seraph-sweetness  of  her  face  ? 
Some  fairer,  better  sport  prefer ; 
And  feel  for  us,  if  not  for  her. 

For  this  presumption,  soon  or  late, 
Know  thine  shall  be  a  kindred  fate. 
Another  shall  in  vengeance  rise  — 
Sing  Harriet's  cheeks,  and  Harriet's  eyes  ; 
And,  echoing  back  her  wood-notes  wild, 
—  Trace  all  the  mother  in  the  child  ! 


236  TO  A  VOICE  THAT  HAD   BEEN  LOST. 


TO   THE  GNAT. 

WHEN  by  the  greenwood  side,  at  summer  eve, 
Poetic  visions  charm  my  closing  eye ; 
And  fairy-scenes,  that  Fancy  loves  to  weave, 
Shift  to  wild  notes  of  sweetest  minstrelsy ; 
'T  is  thine  to  range  in  busy  quest  of  prey, 
Thy  feathery  antlers  quivering  with  delight, 
Brush  from  my  lids  the  hues  of  heaven  away, 
And  all  is  solitude,  and  all  is  night  ! 

—  Ah !  now  thy  barbed  shaft,  relentless  fly, 
Unsheaths  its  terrors  in  the  sultry  air ! 

No  guardian  sylph,  in  golden  panoply, 
Lifts  the  broad  shield,  and  points  the  glittering  spear. 
Now  near  and  nearer  rush  thy  whirring  wings, 
Thy  dragon-scales  still  wet  with  human  gore. 
Hark,  thy  shrill  horn  its  fearful  larum  flings  ! 

—  I  wake  in  horror,  and  dare  sleep  no  more  ! 


TO   A  VOICE  THAT   HAD   BEEN  LOST.2 

Vane,  quid  affectas  faciem  mlhi  ponere,  pictor  ? 

Aeris  et  linguse  sum  filia  ; 

Et,  si  vis  similem  pingere,  pinge  sonum.  —  AUSONIUS. 

ONCE  more,  Enchantress  of  the  soul, 
Once  more  we  hail  thy  soft  control. 
—  Yet  whither,  whither  didst  thou  fly  ? 
To  what  bright  region  of  the  sky  ? 
Say,  in  what  distant  star  to  dwell  t 
(Of  other  worlds  thou  seem'st  to  tell) 


TO    THE    BUTTERFLY.  237 

Or  trembling,  fluttering  here  below, 
Eesolved  and  unresolved  to  go, 
In  secret  didst  thou  still  impart 
Thy  raptures  to  the  pure  in  heart  ? 

Perhaps  to  many  a  desert  shore, 
Thee,  in  his  rage,  the  tempest  bore  ; 
Thy  broken  murmurs  swept  along, 
Mid  echoes  yet  untuned  by  song ; 
Arrested  in  the  realms  of  frost, 
Or  in  the  wilds  of  ether  lost. 

Far  happier  thou  !  't  was  thine  to  soar, 
Careering  on  the  winged  wind. 
Thy  triumphs  who  shall  dare  explore  ? 
Suns  and  their  systems  left  behind. 
No  tract  of  space,  no  distant  star. 
No  shock  of  elements  at  war, 
Did  thee  detain.     Thy  wing  of  fire 
Bore  thee  amid  the  cherub-choir ; 
And  there  a  while  to  thee  't  was  given 
Once  more  that  voice23  beloved  to  join, 
Which  taught  thee  first  a  flight  divine, 
And   nursed   thy  infant   years  with  many  a  strain  from 
Heaven  ! 


TO   THE  BUTTERFLY. 

CHILD  of  the  sun  !  pursue  thy  rapturous  flight, 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lov'st  in  fields  of  light ; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  Paradise  unfold, 
Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 


238    TO   THE   FRAGMENT    OF   A   STATUE   OF  HERCULES. 

There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening-sky, 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstasy  ! 
—  Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb  and  slept. 
And  such  is  man ;  soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day ! 


AN  EPITAPH  ON  A   ROBIN-REDBREAST.94 

TREAD  lightly  here,  for  here,  'tis  said, 
When  piping  winds  are  hushed  around, 
A  small  note  wakes  from  underground, 
Where  now  his  tiny  bones  are  laid. 
No  more  in  lone  and  leafless  groves, 
With  ruffled  wing  and  faded  breast, 
His  friendless,  homeless  spirit  roves  ; 
—  Gone  to  the  world  where  birds  are  blest ! 
Where  never  cat  glides  o'er  the  green, 
Or  school-boy's  giant  form  is  seen  ; 
But  Love,  and  Joy,  and  smiling  Spring, 
Inspire  their  little  souls  to  sing  ! 


TO  THE  FRAGMENT   OF  A  STATUE  OF  HERCULES. 

COMMONLY    CALLED    THE    TORSO. 

AND  dost  thou  still,  thou  mass  of  breathing  stone 
(Thy  giant  limbs  to  night  and  chaos  hurled), 
Still  sit  as  on  the  fragment  of  a  world ; 
Surviving  all,  majestic  and  alone  ? 


TO  ....  239 

What  though  the  Spirits  of  the  North,  that  swept 
Rome  from  the  earth  when  in  her  pomp  she  slept, 
Smote  thee  with  fury,  and  thy  headless  trunk 
Deep  in  the  dust  mid  tower  arid  temple  sunk ; 
Soon  to  subdue  mankind  't  was  thine  to  rise, 
Still,  still  unquelled  thy  glorious  energies  ! 
•Aspiring  minds,  with  thee  conversing,  caught 
Bright  revelations  of  the  Good  they  sought  j25 
By  thee  that  long-lost  spell  in  secret  given, 
To  draw  down  gods,  and  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven  !26 


TO * 

AH  !  little  thought  she,  when,  with  wild  delight, 
By  many  a  torrent's  shining  track  she  flew, 

"When  mountain-glens  and  caverns  full  of  night 
O'er  her  young  mind  divine  enchantment  threw, 

That  in  her  veins  a  secret  horror  slept, 

That  her  light  footsteps  should  be  heard  no  more, 

That  she  should  die  —  nor  watched,  alas  !  nor  wept 
By  thee,  unconscious  of  the  pangs  she  bore. 

Yet  round  her  couch  indulgent  Fancy  drew 
The  kindred  forms  her  closing  eye  required. 

There  didst  thou  stand  —  there,  with  the  smile  she  knew ; 
She  moved  her  lips  to  bless  thee,  and  expired. 

And  now  to  thee  she  comes  ;  still,  still  the  same 

As  in  the  hours  gone  unregarded  by  ! 
To  thee,  how  changed,  comes  as  she  ever  came  ; 

Health  on  her  cheek,  and  pleasure  in  her  eye  ! 


240  THE   BOY    OF   EGREMOND. 

Nor  less,  less  oft,  as  on  that  day,  appears, 
When  lingering,  as  prophetic  of  the  truth, 

By  the  way-side  she  shed  her  parting  tears  — 
Forever  lovely  in  the  light  of  Youth  ! 


THE  BOY  OF  EGREMOND. 

' '  SAY,  what  remains  when  Hope  is  fled  ? ' ' 
She  answered,   "  Endless  weeping  !  " 
For  in  the  herdsman's  eye  she  read 
Who  in  his  shroud  lay  sleeping. 

At  Embsay  rung  the  matin-bell, 
The  stag  was  roused  on  Barden-fell ; 
The  mingled  sounds  were  swelling,  dying, 
And  down  the  Wharfe  a  hern  was  flying ; 
When  near  the  cabin  in  the  wood, 
In  tartan-clad  and  forest-green, 
With  hound  in  leash  and  hawk  in  hood, 
The  Boy  of  Egremond  was  seen.28 
Blithe  was  his  song,  a  song  of  yore ; 
But  where  the  rock  is  rent  in  two, 
And  the  river  rushes  through, 
His  voice  was  heard  no  more  ! 
'T  was  but  a  step  !  the  gulf  he  passed ; 
But  that  step  —  it  was  his  last ! 
As  through  the  mist  he  winged  his  way 
(A  cloud  that  hovers  night  and  day), 
The  hound  hung  back,  and  back  he  drew 
The  master  and  his  merlin  too. 


WRITTEN   IN    THE   HIGHLANDS   OF   SCOTLAND.        241 

That  narrow  place  of  noise  and  strife 
Received  their  little  all  of  life  !   . 

There  now  the  matin-bell  is  rung  ; 
The  "  Miserere  !  "  duly  sung  ; 
And  holy  men  in  cowl  and  hood 
Are  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood. 
But  what  avail  they  ?     Ruthless  Lord, 
Thou  didst  not  shudder  when  the  sword 
Here  on  the  young  its  fury  spent, 
The  helpless  and  the  innocent. 
Sit  now  and  answer,  groan  for  groan. 
The  child  before  thee  is  thy  own. 
And  she  who  wildly  wanders  there, 
The  mother  in  her  long  despair, 
Shall  oft  remind  thee,  waking,  sleeping, 
Of  those  who  by  the  Wharfe  were  weeping ; 
Of  those  who  wrould  not  be  consoled 
When  red  with  blood  the  river  rolled. 


WRITTEN   IN  THE  HIGHLANDS   OF   SCOTLAND, 

SEPTEMBER  2,  1812. 

BLUE  was  the  loch,  the  clouds  were  gone, 
Ben-Lomond  in  his  glory  shone, 
When,  Luss,  I  left  thee  ;  when  the  breeze 
Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands. 
Thy  kirk-yard  wall  among  the  trees, 
Where,  gray  with  age,  the  dial  stands ; 
That  dial  so  well  known  to  me  ! 
—  Though  many  a  shadow  it  had  shed, 
21 


242       WRITTEN   IN   THE   HIGHLANDS   OF   SCOTLAND. 

Beloved  sister,  since  with  thee 
The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 

The  fairy-isles  fled  far  away ; 
That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  green, 
Where  shepherd-huts  are  dimly  seen, 
And  songs  are  heard  at  close  of  day ; 
That  too,  the  deer's  wild  covert,  fled, 
And  that,  the  asylum  of  the  dead  : 
While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily, 
Much  of  BOB  ROY  the  boatman  told; 
His  arm  that  fell  below  his  knee, 
His  cattle-ford  and  mountain-hold. 

Tarbat,29  thy  shore  I  climbed  at  last ; 
And,  thy  shady  region  passed, 
Upon  another  shore  I  stood, 
And  looked  upon  another  flood  :  *° 
Great  Ocean's  self!     ('T  is  He  who  fills 
That  vast  and  awful  depth  of  hills)  ; 
Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round, 
Who  treads  unshod  his  classic  ground  ; 
And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among, 
As  FINGAL  spoke,  and  OSSIAN  sung. 

Night  fell :  and  dark  and  darker  grew 
That  narrojr  sea,  that  narrow  sky, 
As  o'er  the  glimmering  waves  we  flew ; 
The  sea-bird  rustling,  wailing  by. 
And  now  the  grampus,  half-descried, 
Black  and  huge  above  the  tide  ; 
The  cliffs  and  promontories  there, 
Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare  ; 
Each  beyond  each,  with  giant-feet 
Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet : 


ON   ...   ASLEEP.  243 

The  shattered  fortress,  whence  the  Dane 

Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rushed  in  vain, 

Tyrant  of  the  drear  domain  ; 

All  into  midnight-shadow  sweep  — 

When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep  !31 

Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight, 

The  prow  wakes  splendor  ;  and  the  oar, 

That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before, 

Flashes  in  a  sea  of  light ! 

Glad  sign,  and  sure  !  for  now  we  hail 

Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale  ; 

And  bright  indeed  the  path  should  be, 

That  leads  to  Friendship  and  to  thee  ! 

0  blest  retreat,  and  sacred  too  ! 
Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 
Tolled  duly  on  the  desert  air, 
And  crosses  decked  thy  summits  blue. 
Oft,  like  some  loved  romantic  tale, 
Oft  shall  my  weary  mind  recall, 
Amid  the  hum  and  stir  of  men, 
Thy  beechen-grove  and  waterfall, 
Thy  ferry  with  its  gliding  sail, 
And  her  — the  Lady  of  the  Glen  ! 


ON  .       .  ASLEEP. 


SLEEP  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  a  while. 
Though  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile, 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs  !  — 


244  AN   INSCRIPTION    IN    THE   CRIMEA. 

Ah  !  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks, 
And  mantle  o'er  her 'neck  of  snow. 
Ah !  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks, 
What  most  I  wish  —  and  fear  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps  ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 
—  And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  ! 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure  !     Above  control, 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee  ! 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary  ! 


AN  INSCRIPTION  IN  THE  CRIMEA. 

SHEPHERD,  or  Huntsman,  or  worn  Mariner, 
Whate'er  thou  art,  who  wouldst  allay  thy  thirst, 
Drink  and  be  glad.     This  cistern  of  white  stone, 
Arched,  and  o'erwrought  with  many  a  sacred  verse, 
This  iron-cup  chained  for  the  general  use, 
And  these  rude  seats  of  earth  within  the  grove, 
Were  given  by  FATIMA.     Borne  hence  a  bride, 
'T  was  here  she  turned  from  her  beloved  sire, 
To  see  his  face  no  more.32    0,  if  thou  canst 
('T  is  not  far  off),  visit  his  tomb  with  flowers  ; 
And  with  a  drop  of  this  sweet  water  fill 
The  two  small  cells  scooped  in  the  marble  there, 
That  birds  may  come  and  drink  upon  his  grave, 
Making  it  holy33 


REFLECTIONS.  245 

AN  INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TEMPLE  DEDICATED  TO 
THE   GRACES.34 

APPROACH  with  reverence.     There  are  those  within 
Whose  dwelling-place  is  Heaven.    Daughters  of  Jove, 
From  them  flow  all  the  decencies  of  life  ; 
Without  them  nothing  pleases,  Virtue's  self 
Admired,  not  loved :  and  those  on  whom  they  smile, 
Great  though  they  be,  and  wise,  and  beautiful, 
Shine  forth  with  double  lustre. 


REFLECTIONS. 

MAN  to  the  last  is  but  a  froward  child ; 

So  eager  for  the  future,  come  what  may, 

And  to  the  present  so  insensible  ! 

0,  if  he  could  in  all  things  as  he  would, 

Years  would  as  days  and  hours  as  moments  be ; 

He  would,  so  restless  is  his  spirit  here, 

Give  wings  to  Time,  and  wish  his  life  away  ! 


ALAS  !  to  our  discomfort  and  his  own, 
Oft  are  the  greatest  talents  to  be  found 
In  a  fool's  keeping.     For  what  else  is  he, 
However  worldly  wise  and  worldly  strong, 
Who  can  pervert  and  to  the  worst  abuse 
The  noblest  means  to  serve  the  noblest  ends 
Who  can  employ  the  gift  of  eloquence, 
That  sacred  gift,  to  dazzle  and  delude  ; 
Or,  if  achievement  in  the  field  be  his. 
21* 


246  REFLECTIONS. 

Climb  but  to  gain  a  loss,  suffering  how  much, 

And  how  much  more  inflicting  !    Everywhere, 

Cost  what  they  will,  such  cruel  freaks  are  played ; 

And  hence  the  turmoil  in  this  world  of  ours, 

The  turmoil  never  ending,  still  beginning, 

The  wailing  and  the  tears. — When  CAESAR  came, 

He  who  could  master  all  men  but  himself, 

Who  did  so  much  and  could  so  well  record  it ; 

Even  he,  the  most  applauded  in  his  part, 

Who,  when  he  spoke,  all  things  summed  up  in  him, 

Spoke  to  convince,  nor  ever,  when  he  fought, 

Fought  but  to  conquer  —  what  a  life  was  his, 

Slaying  so  many,  to  be  slain  at  last,35 

A  life  of  trouble  and  incessant  toil, 

And  all  to  gain  what  is  far  better  missed  ! 


THE  heart,  they  say,  is  wiser  than  the  schools ; 
And  well  they  may.     All  that  is  great  in  thought, 
That  strikes  at  once  as  with  electric  fire, 
And  lifts  us,  as  it  were,  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Comes  from  the  heart ;  and  who  confesses  not 
Its  voice  as  sacred,  nay,  almost  divine, 
When  inly  it  declares  on  what  we  do, 
Blaming,  approving  ?     Let  an  erring  world 
Judge  as  it  will,  we  care  not  while  we  stand 
Acquitted  there  ;  and  oft,  when  clouds  on  clouds 
Compass  us  round  and  not  a  track  appears, 
Oft  is  an  upright  heart  the  surest  guide, 
Surer  and  better  than  the  subtlest  head ; 
Still  with  its  silent  counsels  through  the  dark 
Onward  and  onward  leading. 


REFLECTIONS.  247 

THIS  Child,  so  lovely  and  so  cherub-like 

(No  fairer  spirit  in  the  heaven  of  heavens), 

Say,  must  he  know  remorse  ?     Must  Passion  come, 

Passion  in  all  or  any  of  its  shapes, 

To  cloud  and  sully  what  is  now  so  pure  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must.     For  who,  alas  !  has  lived, 

Nor  in  the  watches  of  the  night  recalled 

Words  he  has  wished  unsaid  and  deeds  undone  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must,     But  if,  as  we  may  hope, 

He  learns  ere  long  to  discipline  his  mind, 

And  onward  goes,  humbly  and  cheerfully, 

Assisting  them  that  faint,  weak  though  he  be, 

And  in  his  trying  hours  trusting  in  God  — 

Fair  as  he  is,  he  shall  be  fairer  still ; 

For  what  was  Innocence  will  then  be  Virtue. 


0,  IF  the  Selfish  knew  how  much  they  lost, 
What  would  they  not  endeavor,  not  endure, 
To  imitate,  as  far  as  in  them  lay, 
Him  who  his  wisdom  and  his  power  employs 
In  making  others  happy  ! 


HENCE  to  the  Altar  and  with  her  thou  lov'st, 

With  her  who  longs  to  strew  thy  way  with  flowers  ; 

Nor  lose  the  blessed  privilege  to  give 

Birth  to  a  race  immortal  as  yourselves. 

Which,  trained  by  you,  shall  make  a  Heaven  on  earth, 

And  tread  the  path  that  leads  from  earth  to  Heaven. 


248  FROM   AN   ITALIAN   SONNET. 


WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

SEPTEMBER  3,  1848. 

IF  Day  reveals  such  wonders  by  her  light, 
What  by  her  darkness  cannot  Night  reveal  ? 
For  at  her  bidding,  when  she  mounts  her  throne 
The  heavens  unfold,  and  from  the  depths  of  space 
Sun  beyond  sun,  as  when  called  forth  they  came. 
Each  with  the  worlds  that  round  him  rolled  rejoicing, 
Sun  beyond  sun  in  numbers  numberless 
Shine  with  a  radiance  that  is  all  their  own  ! 


FROM  AN  ITALIAN  SONNET. 

I  SAID  to  Time,  "  This  venerable  pile, 
Its  floor  the  earth,  its  roof  the  firmament, 
Whose  was  it  once  ?  "     He  answered  not,  but  fled 
Fast  as  before.     I  turned  to  Fame,  and  asked. 
"  Names  such  as  his,  to  thee  they  must  be  known. 
Speak  !  "     But  she  answered  only  with  a  sigh, 
And,  musing  mournfully,  looked  on  the  ground. 
Then  to  Oblivion  I  addressed  myself, 
A  dismal  phantom,  sitting  at  the  gate  ; 
And,  with  a  voice  as  from  the  grave,  he  cried, 
"  Whose  it  was  once  I  care  not ;  now  ;t  is  mine.'7 


WRITTEN   IN   WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  249 


WRITTEN  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.36 

OCTOBER  10,  1806. 

WHOE'ER  thou  art,  approach,  and,  with  a  sigh, 
Mark  where  the  small  remains  of  Greatness  lie.37 
There  sleeps  the  dust  of  Fox  forever  gone  ; 
How  near  the  place  where  late  his  glory  shone ! 
And,  though  no  more  ascends  the  voice  of  prayer, 
Though  the  last  footsteps  cease  to  linger  there, 
Still,  like  an  awful  dream  that  comes  again, 
Alas  !  at  best,  as  transient  and  as  vain, 
Still  do  I  see  (while  through  the  vaults  of  night 
The  funeral-song  once  more  proclaims  the  rite) 
The  moving  pomp  along  the  shadowy  aisle, 
That,  like  a  darkness,  filled  the  solemn  pile ; 
The  illustrious  line,  that  in  long  order  led, 
Of  those,  that  loved  him  living,  mourned  him  dead 
Of  those  the  few,  that  for  their  country  stood 
Round  him  who  dared  be  singularly  good ; 
All,  of  all  ranks,  that  claimed  him  for  their  own  ; 
And  nothing  wanting  —  but  himself  alone  !  "8 
0,  say,  of  him  now  rests  there  but  a  name  ; 
Wont,  as  he  was,  to  breathe  ethereal  flame  ? 
Friend  of  the  absent,  guardian  of  the  dead  ! 
Who  but  would  here  their  sacred  sorrows  shed  ? 
(Such  as  he  shed  on  NELSON'S  closing  grave ; 
How  soon  to  claim  the  sympathy  he  gave!) 
In  him,  resentful  of  another's  wrong, 
The  dumb  were  eloquent,  the  feeble  strong. 
Truth  from  his  lips  a  charm  celestial  drew  — 
Ah  I  who  so  mighty  and  so  gentle  too  ? 


250  WRITTEN   AT   DROPMORE. 

What  though  with  war  the  madding  nations  rung, 
"  Peace,"  when  he  spoke,  was  ever  on  his  tongue  ! 
Amid  the  frowns  of  power,  the  tricks  of  state, 
Fearless,  resolved,  and  negligently  great  ! 
In  vain  malignant  vapors  gathered  round  ; 
He  walked,  erect,  on  consecrated  ground. 
The  clouds,  that  rise  to  quench  the  orb  of  day, 
Reflect  its  splendor,  and  dissolve  away  ! 

When  in  retreat  he  laid  his  thunder  by, 
For  lettered  ease  and  calm  philosophy, 
Blest  were  his  hours  within  the  silent  grove, 
Where  still  his  godlike  spirit  deigns  to  rove  ; 
Blest  by  the  orphan's  smile,  the  widow's  prayer, 
For  many  a  deed,  long  done  in  secret  there. 
There  shone  his  lamp  on  Homer's  hallowed  page. 
There,  listening,  sate  the  hero  and  the  sage  ; 
And  they,  by  virtue  and  by  blood  allied, 
Whom  most  he  loved,  and  in  whose  arms  he  died. 

Friend  of  all  human-kind  !  not  here  alone 
(The  voice,  that  speaks,  was  not  to  thee  unknown) 
Wilt  thou  be  missed.  —  O'er  every  land  and  sea 
Long,  long  shall  England  be  revered  in  thee  ! 
And,  when  the  storm  is  hushed  —  in  distant  years  — - 
Foes  on  thy  grave  shall  meet,  and  mingle  tears ! 


WRITTEN  AT   DROPMORE, 

JULY,  1831. 

GRENVILLE,  to  thee  my  gratitude  is  due 
For  many  an  hour  of  studious  musing  here, 
For  many  a  day-dream,  such  as  hovered  round 
Hafiz  or  Sadi ;  through  the  golden  East, 


WRITTEN  AT   STRATHFIELD   SAYE.  251 

Search  where  we  would,  no  fairer  bowers  than  these, 

Thine  own  creation  ;  where,  called  forth  by  thee, 

1 '  Flowers  worthy  of  Paradise,  with  rich  inlay, 

Broider  the  ground,"  and  every  mountain-pine 

Elsewhere  unseen  (his  birth-place  in  the  clouds, 

His  kindred  sweeping  with  majestic  march 

From  cliff  to  cliff  along  the  snowy  ridge 

Of  Caucasus,  or  nearer  yet  the  moon) 

Breathes  heavenly  music.  —  Yet  much  more  I  owe 

For  what  so  few,  alas  !  can  hope  to  share, 

Thy  converse ;  when,  among  thy  books  reclined, 

Or  in  thy  garden-chair  that  wheels  its  course 

Slowly  and  silently  through  sun  and  shade, 

Thou  speak'st,  as  ever  thou  art  wont  to  do, 

In  the  calm  temper  of  philosophy  ; 

—  Still  to  delight,  instruct,  whate'er  the  theme. 


WRITTEN  AT  STRATHFIELD   SAYE. 

THESE  are  the  groves  a  grateful  people  gave 
For  noblest  service ;  and,  from  age  to  age, 
May  they,  to  such  as  come  with  listening  ear, 
Relate  the  story  !     Sacred  is  their  shade  ; 
Sacred  the  calm  they  breathe  —  0,  how  unlike 
What  in  the  field  't  was  his  so  long  to  know  ! 
Where  many  a  mournful,  many  an  anxious  thought/ 
Troubling,  perplexing,  on  his  weary  mind 
Preyed,  ere  to  arms  the  morning-trumpet  called  ; 
Where,  till  the  work  was  done  and  darkness  fell, 
Blood  ran  like  water,  and,  go  where  thou  wouldst. 
Death  in  thy  pathway  met  thee,  face  to  face. 


252  WRITTEN  IN  JULY,  1834. 

For  on,  regardless  of  himself,  he  went ; 
And,  by  no  change  elated  or  depressed, 
Fought,  till  he  won  the  imperishable  wreath, 
Leading  the  conquerors  captive  ;  on  he  went, 
Bating  nor  heart  nor  hope,  whoe'er  opposed; 
The  greatest  warriors,  in  their  turn,  appearing ; 
The  last  that  came,  the  greatest  of  them  all  — 
One  scattering  hosts  as  born  but  to  subdue, 
And  even  in  bondage  withering  hearts  with  fear. 

When  such  the  service,  what  the  recompense  ? 
Yet,  and  I  err  not,  a  renown  as  fair, 
And  fairer  still,  awaited  him  at  home  ; 
Where  to  the  last,  day  after  day,  he  stood, 
The  party-zeal,  that  round  him  raged,  restraining ; 
—  His  not  to  rest,  while  his  the  strength  to  serve.4( 


WRITTEN  IN  JULY,  1834. 

GREY,  thou  hast  served,  and  well,  the  sacred  cause 
That  Hampden,  Sydney  died  for.     Thou  hast  stood, 
Scorning  all  thought  of  self,  from  first  to  last, 
Among  the  foremost  in  that  glorious  field ; 
From  first  to  last ;  and,  ardent  as  thou  art, 
Held  on  writh  equal  step  as  best  became 
A  lofty  mind,  loftiest  when  most  assailed ; 
Never,  though  galled  by  many  a  barbed  shaft, 
By  many  a  bitter  taunt  from  friend  and  foe, 
Swerving  or  shrinking.     Happy  in  thy  youth, 
Thy  youth  the  dawn  of  a  long  summer-day ; 
But  in  thy  age  still  happier ;  thine  to  earn 
The  gratitude  of  millions  yet  unborn ; 


WKITTEN  IN   1834.  253 

Thine  to  conduct,  through  ways  how  difficult, 
A  mighty  people  in  their  march  sublime 
From  Good  to  Better.     Great  thy  recompense, 
When  in  their  eyes  thou  read'st  what  thou  hast  done ; 
And  may'st  thou  long  enjoy  it ;  may'st  thou  long 
Preserve  for  them  what  they  still  claim  as  theirs, 
That  generous  fervor  and  pure  eloquence, 
Thine  from  thy  birth  and  Nature's  noblest  gifts, 
To  guard  what  they  have  gained  ! 


WRITTEN  IN   1834. 

WELL,  when  her  day  is  over,  be  it  said 
That,  though  a  speck  on  the  terrestrial  globe, 
Found  with  long  search  and  in  a  moment  lost, 
She  made  herself  a  name  —  a  name  to  live 
While  science,  eloquence,  and  song  divine, 
And  wisdom,  in  self-government  displayed, 
And  valor,  such  as  only  in  the  Free, 
Shall  among  men  be  honored. 

Every  sea 

Was  covered  with  her  sails ;  in  every  port 
Her  language  spoken  ;  and,  where'er  you  went, 
Exploring,  to  the  east  or  to  the  west, 
Even  to  the  rising  or  the  setting  day, 
Her  arts  and  laws  and  institutes  were  there, 
Moving  with  silent  and  majestic  march, 
Onward  and  onward,  where  no  pathway  was  ; 
There  her  adventurous  sons,  like  those  of  old, 
Founding  vast  empires 41  —  empires  in  their  turn 

99 


254  WRITTEN   IN   1834. 

Destined  to  shine  through  many  a  distant  age 
With  sun-like  splendor. 

Wondrous  was  her  wealth, 
The  world  itself  her  willing  tributary ; 
Yet,  to  accomplish  what  her  soul  desired, 
All  was  as  nothing ;  and  the  mightiest  kings. 
Each  in  his  hour  of  strife  exhausted,  fallen, 
Drew  strength  from  her,  their  coffers  from  her  own 
Filled  to  o'erflowing.     When  her  fleets  of  war 
Had  swept  the  main, —  had  swept  it  and  were  gone, 
Gone  from  the  eyes  and  from  the  minds  of  men, 
Their  dreadful  errand  so  entirely  done,— 
Up  rose  her  armies ;  on  the  land  they  stood, 
Fearless,  erect ;  and  in  an  instant  smote 
Him  with  his  legions.42 

Yet  ere  long  'twas  hers, 
Great  as  her  triumphs,  to  eclipse  them  all, 
To  do  what  none  had  done,  none  had  conceived, 
An  act  how  glorious,  making  joy  in  Heaven ; 
When,  such  her  prodigality,  condemned 
To  toil  and  toil,  alas  !  how  hopelessly, 
Herself  in  bonds,  for  ages  unredeemed  — 
As  with  a  godlike  energy  she  sprung, 
All  else  forgot,  and,  burdened  as  she  was, 
Ransomed  the  African.43 


NOTES. 


(1)  Written  in  1785. 

(2)  The  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia. 

(3)  Lucretius,  I.  63. 

(4)  The  funeral  rite  of  the  Hindoos. 

(5)  The  Fates  of  the  northern  mythology.  —  See  Mallet's  Antiquities. 

(6)  An  allusion  to  the  second  sight. 
<J)  JEn.  II.  172,  &c. 

(8)  The  bull,  Apis. 

(9)  The  crocodile. 

(10)  According  to  an  ancient  proverb,  it  was  less  difficult  in  Egypt  to  find  a  god  than  a 
man. 

(11)  The  Hieroglyphics. 

(12)  The  Catacombs. 

(13)  "The  Persians,"  says  Herodotus,  "have  no  temples,  altars  or  statues.     They 
sacrifice  on  the  tops  of  the  highest  mountains."  —  I.  131. 

04)  Mn.  VI.  46,  &c. 

(15)  See  Tacitus,  I.  xiv.  c.  29. 

(16)  This  remarkable  event  happened  at  the  siege  and  sack  of  Jerusalem,  in  the  last  year 
of  the  eleventh  century.  —Matth.  Paris,  IV.  2. 

(If)  The  law  of  gravitation. 

(18)  On  the  death  of  a  young  sister. 

(19)  After  a  tragedy,  performed  for  her  benefit  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  in  Drury  Lane, 
April  27, 1795. 

(20)  Radice  in  Tartara  tendit.  —  Virg. 

(21)  Alluding  to  some  verses  which  she  had  written  on  an  elder  sister. 


256  NOTES. 

(22)  In  the  winter  of  1805. 

(23)  Mrs.  Sheridan's. 

(24)  Inscribed  on  an  urn  in  the  flower-garden  at  Hafod. 

(23)  In  the  gardens  of  the  Vatican,  where  it  was  placed  by  Julius  II.,  it  was  long  the 
favorite  study  of  those  great  men  to  whom  we  owe  the  revival  of  the  arts,  Michael  Angelo, 
Raphael  and  the  Caracci. 

(2C)  Once  in  the  possession  of  Praxiteles,  if  we  may  believe  an  ancient  epigram  on  the 
Guidian  Venus.  — Analecta  Vet.  Poetarum,  III.  200. 

(-•7)  On  the  death  of  her  sister,  in  1805. 

(28)  In  the  twelfth  century  William  Fitz-Duncan  laid  waste  the  valleys  of  Craven  with 
fire  and  sword  ;  and  was  afterwards  established  there  by  his  uncle,  David,  King  of  Scot 
land. 

lie  was  the  last  of  the  race ;  his  son,  commonly  called  the  Boy  of  Egremond,  dying 
before  him  in  the  manner  here  related  ;  when  a  Priory  was  removed  from  Embsay  to 
Bolton,  that  it  might  be  as  near  as  possible  to  the  place  where  the  accident  happened. 
That  place  is  still  known  by  the  name  of  the  Strid  ;  and  the  mother's  answer,  as  given  in 
the  first  stanza,  is  to  this  day  often  repeated  in  Wharfedale.  —  See  Whitaker's  Hist,  of 
Craven. 

(29)  Signifying  in  the  Gaelic  language  an  isthmus. 

(30)  Loch-Long. 

(31)  A  phenomenon  described  by  many  navigators. 

(32)  There  is  a  beautiful  story,  delivered  down  to  us  from  antiquity,  which  will  here, 
perhaps,  occur  to  the  reader. 

Icarius,  when  he  gave  Penelope  in  marriage  to  Ulysses,  endeavored  to  persuade  him  to 
dwell  in  Lacedasmon  ,  and,  when  all  he  urged  was  to  no  purpose,  he  entreated  his 
daughter  to  remain  with  him.  When  Ulysses  set  out  with  his  bride  for  Ithaca,  the  old 
man  followed  the  chariot  till,  overcome  by  his  importunity,  Ulysses  consented  that  it 
should  be  left  to  Penelope  to  decide  whether  she  would  proceed  with  him  or  return  with 
her  father.  It  is  related,  says  Pausanias,  that  she  made  no  reply,  but  that  she  covered 
herself  with  her  veil ;  and  that  Icarius,  perceiving  at  once  by  it  that  she  inclined  to 
Ulysses,  suffered  her  to  depart  with  him. 

A  statue  was  afterwards  placed  by  her  father  as  a  memorial  in  that  part  of  the  road 
where  she  had  covered  herself  with  her  veil.  It  was  still  standing  there  in  the  days  of 
Pausanias,  and  was  called  the  statue  of  Modesty. 

(33)  A  Turkish  superstition. 
(.34)  At  Woburn  Abbey. 

(35)  He  is  said  to  have  slain  a  million  of  men  in  Gaul  alone. 
(3G)  After  the  funeral  of  the  Right  Hon.  CHARLES  JAMES  Fox. 

(37)  Venez  voir  le  peu  qui  nous  reste  de  tant  de  grandeur,  &c.  —  Bossuet.     Oraison 
funebre  de  Louis  de  Bourbon. 

(38)  Et  rien  enfin  ne  manque  dans  tous  ces  honneurs,  que  celui  a  qui  on  les  rend.  — 
Bossuet.     Oraison  funebre  de  Louis  de  Bourbon. 


NOTES.  257 


(39)  How  strange,  said  he  to  me,  are  the  impressions  that  sometimes  follow  a  battle  ! 
After  the  battle  of  Assaye  I  slept  in  a  farm-house,  and  so  great  had  been  the  slaughter 
that  whenever  I  awoke,  which  I  did  continually  through  the  night,  it  struck  me  that  I  had 
lost  all  my  friends,  nor  could  I  bring  myself  to  think  otherwise  till  morning  came,  and  one 
by  one  I  saw  those  that  were  living. 

(40)  On  Friday,  the  19th  of  November,  1830,  there  was  an  assembly  at  Bridgewater 
House,  a  house  which  has  long  ceased  to  be,  and  of  which  no  stone  is  now  resting  on 
another.    It  was  there  that  I  saw  a  lady  whose  beauty  was  the  least  of  her  attractions, 
and  she  said,  "  I  never  see  you  now."  —  "  When  may  I  come  ?  "  —  "  Come  on  Sunday  at 
five." — "  At  five,  then,  you  shall  see  me." —  "  Remember  five."  —  And  through  the  even 
ing,  wherever  I  went,  a  voice  followed  me,  repeating,  in  a  tone  of  mock  solemnity,  "  Remem 
ber  five  !  "    It  was  the  voice  of  one  who  had  overheard  us  ;  and  little  did  he  think  what 
was  to  take  place  at  five. 

On  Sunday,  when  the  time  drew  near,  it  struck  me  as  I  was  leaving  Lord  Holland's,  in 
Burlington-street,  that  I  had  some  engagement,  so  little  had  I  thought  of  it,  and  I  repaired 
to  the  house,  No.  4,  in  Carlton  Gardens.  There  were  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  horses  at 
the  door,  and  I  said,  "  The  duke  is  here."  —  "  But  you  are  expected,  sir."  —  I  went  in  and 
found  him  sitting  with  the  lady  of  the  house,  the  lady  who  had  made  the  appointment,  nor 
was  it  long  before  he  spoke  as  follows  : 

"They  want  me  to  place  myself  at  the  head  of  a  faction,  but  I  tell  them  that  I  never 
will. 

"  To-morrow  I  shall  give  up  my  office  and  go  down  into  my  county,  to  restore  order 
there,  if  I  can  restore  it.  When  I  return,  I  shall  take  my  place  in  Parliament,  to  approve 
when  I  can  approve  ;  and  when  I  cannot,  to  say  so.  I  have  now  served  my  country  forty 
years,  twenty  in  the  field  and  ten  —  if  not  more  —  in  the  cabinet ;  nor,  while  I  live,  shall 
I  be  found  wanting,  wherever  I  may  be.  But  never  —  no,  never  —  will  I  place  myself  at 
the  head  of  a  faction." 

Having  met  Lord  Grey,  who  was  to  succeed  him  in  his  office,  again  and  again  under  my 
roof,  and  knowing  our  intimacy,  he  meant  that  these  words  should  be  repeated  to  him  ;  and 
so  they  were,  word  for  word,  on  that  very  night. 

(41)  North  America  speaks  for  itself  ;  and  so  indeed  may  we  say  of  India,  when  such  a 
territory  is  ours  in  a  region  so  remote  ;  when  a  company  of  merchants,  from  sucli  small 
beginnings,  have  established  a  dominion  so  absolute,  —  a  dominion  over  a  people  for  ages 
civilized  and  cultivated,  while  we  were  yet  in  the  woods. 

(42)  Alluding  to  the  battle  of  Waterloo.    The  illustrious  man  who  commanded  there  on 
our  side,  and  who,  in  his  anxiety  to  do  justice  to  others,  never  fails  to  forget  himself,  said 
to  me  many  years  afterwards,  with  some  agitation,  when  relating  an  occurrence  of  that 
day,  "  It  was  a  battle  of  giants  !  a  battle  of  giants  !  " 

(43)  Parliament  had  only  to  register  the  edict  of  the  people.  —  Channing. 

22* 


ITALY. 


PREFACE. 


IN  this  poem  the  author  has  endeavored  to  describe  his  journey  through 
a  beautiful  country  ;  and  it  may  not  perhaps  be  uninteresting  to  those  who 
have  learnt  to  live  in  past  times  as  well  as  present,  and  whose  minds  are 
familiar  with  the  events  and  the  people  that  have  rendered  Italy  so  illus 
trious  ;  for,  wherever  he  came,  he  could  not  but  remember  ;  nor  is  he  con 
scious  of  having  slept  over  any  ground  that  has  been  "  dignified  by  wisdom, 
bravery  or  virtue." 

Much  of  it  was  originally  published  as  it  was  written  on  the  spot.  He 
has  since,  on  a  second  visit,  revised  it  throughout,  and  added  many  stories 
from  the  old  chroniclers,  and  many  notes  illustrative  of  the  manners,  cus 
toms  and  superstitions,  there. 


ITALY. 


THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA. 

DAY  glimmered  in  the  east,  and  the  white  Moon 

Hung  like  a  vapor  in  the  cloudless  sky. 

Yet  visible,  when  on  my  way  I  went. 

Glad  to  be  gone  ;  a  pilgrim  from  the  North, 

Now  more  and  more  attracted  as  I  drew 

Nearer  and  nearer.     Ere  the  artisan 

Had  from  his  window  leant,  drowsy,  half-clad, 

To  snuff  the  morn,  or  the  caged  lark  poured  forth, 

From  his  green  sod  upspringing  as  to  heaven 

(His  tuneful  bill  o'erflowing  with  a  song 

Old  in  the  days  of  HOMER,  and  his  wings 

With  transport  quivering),  on  my  way  I  went, 

Thy  gates,  GENEVA,  swinging  heavily, 

Thy  gates  so  slow  to  open,  swift  to  shut ; 

As  on  that  Sabbath-eve  when  he  arrived,1 

Whose  name  is  now  thy  glory,  now  by  thee, 

Such  virtue  dwells  in  those  small  syllables, 

Inscribed  to  consecrate  the  narrow  street, 

His  birth-place, —  when,  but  one  short  step  too  late, 

In  his  despair,  as  though  the  die  were  cast, 


262  ITALY. 

He  flung  him  down  to  weep,  and  wept  till  dawn ; 
Then  rose  to  go,  a  wanderer  through  the  world. 

'T  is  not  a  tale  that  every  hour  brings  with  it.2 
Yet  #t  a  city-gate,  from  time  to  time, 
Much  may  be  learnt :  nor,  London,  least  at  thine, 
Thy  hive  the  busiest,  greatest  of  them  all, 
Gathering,  enlarging  still.     Let  us  stand  by, 
And  note  who  passes.     Here  comes  one,  a  youth, 
Glowing  with  pride,  the  pride  of  conscious  power, 
A  CIIATTERTON  —  in  thought  admired,  caressed, 
And  crowned  like  PETRARCH  in  the  Capitol ; 
Ere  long  to  die,  to  fall  by  his  own  hand, 
And  fester  with  the  vilest.     Here  come  two, 
Less  feverish,  less  exalted  —  soon  to  part, 
A  GARRICK  and  a  JOHNSON  ;  Wealth  and  Fame 
Awaiting  one,  even  at  the  gate  ;  Neglect 
And  Want  the  other.     But  what  multitudes, 
Urged  by  the  love  of  change,  and,  like  myself, 
Adventurous,  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare, 
Press  on  —  though  but  a  rill  entering  the  sea, 
Entering  and  lost !     Our  task  would  never  end. 

Day  glimmered  and  I  went,  a  gentle  breeze 
Ruffling  the  LEMAN  Lake.     Wave  after  wave, 
If  such  they  might  be  called,  dashed  as  in  sport, 
Not  anger,  with  the  pebbles  on  the  beach 
Making  wild  music,  and  far  westward  caught 
The  sunbeam  —  where,  alone  and  as  entranced, 
Counting  the  hours,  the  fisher  in  his  skiff 
Lay  with  his  circular  and  dotted  line  \ 

On  the  bright  waters.  When  the  heart  of  man\ 
Is  light  with  hope,  all  things  are  sure  to  please  ;  / 
And  soon  a  passage-boat  swept  gayly  by, 


f 


I 

% 


THE   LAKE    OF   GENEVA.  263 

Laden  with  peasant-girls  and  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  many  a  chanticleer  and  partlet  caged 

For  VEVEY'S  market-place  —  a  motley  group 

Seen  through  the  silvery  haze.    But  soon  't  was  gone. 

The  shifting  sail  flapped  idly  to  and  fro, 

Then  bore  them  off.     I  am  not  one  of  those 

So  dead  to  all  things  in  this  visible  world, 

So  wondrously  profound,  as  to  move  on 

In  the  sweet  light  of  heaven,  like  him  of  old 3 

(His  name  is  justly  in  the  Calendar) 

Who  through  the  day  pursued  this  pleasant  path 

That  winds  beside  the  mirror  of  all  beauty,4 

And,  when  at  eve  his  fellow-pilgrims  sate, 

Discoursing  of  the  lake,  asked  where  it  was. 

They  marvelled,  as  they  might ;  and  so  must  all, 

Seeing  what  now  I  saw :  for  now  'twas  day, 

And  the  bright  sun  was  in  the  firmament, 

A  thousand  shadows  of  a  thousand  hues 

Checkering  the  clear  expanse.     A  while  his  orb 

Hung  o'er  thy  trackless  fields  of  snow,  MONT  BLANC, 

Thy  seas  of  ice  and  ice-built  promontories, 

That  change  their  shapes  forever  as  in  sport ; 

Then  travelled  onward  and  went  down  behind 

The  pine- clad  heights  of  JURA,  lighting  up 

The  woodman's  casement,  and  perchance  his  axe 

Borne  homeward  through  the  forest  in  his  hand ; 

And,  on  the  edge  of  some  o'erhanging  cliff, 

That  dungeon-fortress 5  never  to  be  named,6 

Where,  like  a  lion  taken  in  the  toils, 

Toussaint  breathed  out  his  brave  and  generous  spirit. 

Little  did  he,  who  sent  him  there  to  die, 

Think,  when  he  gave  the  word,  that  he  himself, 


264  ITALY. 

Great  as  he  was,  the  greatest  among  men. 
Should  in  like  manner  be  so  soon  conveyed 
Athwart  the  deep, —  and  to  a  rock  so  small 
Amid  the  countless  multitude  of  waves, 
That  ships  have  gone  and  sought  it,  and  returned, 
Saying  it  was  not ! 


MEILLERIE. 

THESE  gray  majestic  cliffs  that  tower  to  heaven, 

These  glimmering  glades  and  open  chestnut  groves, 

That  echo  to  the  heifer's  wandering  bell, 

Or  woodman's  axe,  or  steers-man's  song  beneath, 

As  on  he  urges  his  fir-laden  bark, 

Or  shout  of  goatherd  boy  above  them  all, 

Who  loves  not  ?    And  who  blesses  not  the  light, 

When  through  some  loop-hole  he  surveys  the  lake 

Blue  as  a  sapphire-stone,  and  richly  set 

With  chateaux,  villages,  and  village-spires, 

Orchards  and  vineyards,  alps  and  alpine  snows  ? 

Here  would  I  dwell ;  nor  visit,  but  in  thought, 

FERNEY  far  south,  silent  and  empty  now 

As  now  thy  once  luxurious  bowers,  RJPAILLE  ; 7 

VEVEY,  so  long  an  exiled  patriot's 8  home ; 

Or  CHILLON'S  dungeon-floors  beneath  the  wave, 

Channelled  and  worn  by  pacing  to  and  fro ; 

LAUSANNE,  where  GIBBON  in  his  sheltered  walk 

Nightly  called  up  the  shade  of  ancient  KoME;9 

Or  COPPET,  and  that  dark  untrodden  grove 10 

Sacred  to  Virtue,  and  a  daughter's  tears  ! 

Here  would  I  dwell,  forgetting  and  forgot ; 


MEILLEEIE.  265 

And  oft  methinks  (of  such  strange  potency 

The  spells  that  Genius  scatters  where  he  will) 

Oft  should  I  wander  forth  like  one  in  search, 

And  say,  half-dreaming,  ''Here  ST.  PREUX  has  stood  ! " 

Then  turn  and  gaze  on  CLARENS. 

Yet  there  is, 

Within  an  eagle's  flight  and  less,  a  scene 
Still  nobler  if  not  fairer  (once  again 
Would  I  behold  it  ere  these  eyes  are  closed, 
For  I  can  say,  "  I  also  have  been  there  !  ") 
That  sacred  lake  u  withdrawn  among  the  hills, 
Its  depth  of  waters  flanked  as  with  a  wall 
Built  by  the  giant-race  before  the  flood ; 
Where  not  a  cross  or  chapel  but  inspires 
Holy  delight,  lifting  our  thoughts  to  God 
From  godlike  men, —  men  in  a  barbarous  age 
That  dared  assert  their  birthright,  and  displayed 
Deeds  half-divine,  returning  good  for  ill ; 
That  in  the  desert  sowed  the  seeds  of  life, 
Framing  a  band  of  small  republics  there, 
Which  still  exist,  the  envy  of  the  world  !   • 
Who  would  not  land  in  each,  and  tread  the  ground ; 
Land  where  TELL  leaped  ashore  ;  and  climb  to  drink 
Of  the  three  hallowed  fountains  ?     He  that  does 
Comes  back  the  better ;  and  relates  at  home 
That  he  was  met  and  greeted  by  a  race 
Such  as  he  read  of  in  his  boyish  days  ; 
Such  as  MILTIADES  at  Marathon 
Led,  when  he  chased  the  Persians  to  their  ships. 

There,  while  the  well-known  boat  is  heaving  in, 
Piled  with  rude  merchandise,  or  launching  forth, 
Thronged  with  wild  cattle  for  Italian  fairs, 
23 


266  ITALY. 

There  in  the  sunshine,  'mid  their  native  snows. 
Children,  let  loose  from  school,  contend  to  use 
\*X    The  cross-bow  of  their  fathers  ;  and  o'errun 
The  rocky  field  where  all,  in  every  age, 
Assembling  sit,  like  one  great  family, 
Forming  alliances,  enacting  laws  ; 
Each  cliff  and  head-land  and  green  promontory 
Graven  to  their  eyes  with  records  of  the  past 
That  prompt  to  hero-worship,  and  excite 
Even  in  the  least,  the  lowliest,  as  he  toils, 
A  reverence  nowhere  else  or  felt  or  feigned  ; 
Their  chronicler  great  Nature ;  and  the  volume 
Vast  as  her  works  —  above,  below,  around  ! 
The  fisher  on  thy  beach,  THERMOPYLAE, 
Asks  of  the  lettered  stranger  why  he  came, 
First  from  his  lips  to  learn  the  glorious  truth ! 

JAnd  who  that  whets  his  scythe  in  RUNNEMEDE, 
Though  but  for  them  a  slave,  recalls  to  mind 
The  barons  in  array,  with  their  great  charter  ? 
Among  the  everlasting  Alps  alone, 
There  to  burn  on  as  in  a  sanctuary, 
Bright  and  unsullied  lives  the  ethereal  flame  ; 
And  'mid  those  scenes  unchanged,  unchangeable, 
Why  should  it  ever  die  ? 


ST.  MAURICE. 

STILL  by  the  LEMAN  Lake,  for  many  a  mile, 
Among  those  venerable  trees  I  went, 
Where  damsels  sit  and  weave  their  fishing-nets, 
Singing  some  national  song  by  the  wayside. 


THE    GREAT   ST.    BERNARD.  26T 

But  now  the  fly  was  gone,  the  gnat  was  come  j 

Now  glimmering  lights  from  cottage-windows  broke. 

'Twas  dusk;  and,  journeying  upward  by  the  RHONE, 

That  there  came  down,  a  torrent  from  the  Alps, 

I  entered  where  a  key  unlocks  a  kingdom  ; 

The  road  and  river,  as  they  wind  along, 

Filling  the  mountain  pass.     There,  till  a  ray 

Glanced  through  my  lattice,  arid  the  household-stir 

Warned  me  to  rise,  to  rise  and  to  depart, 

A  stir  unusual,  and  accompanied 

With  many  a  tuning  of  rude  instruments, 

And  many  a  laugh  that  argued  coming  pleasure, 

Mine  host's  fair  daughter  for  the  nuptial  rite 

And  nuptial  feast  attiring  —  there  I  slept, 

And  in  my  dreams  wandered  once  more,  well  pleased. 

But  now  a  charm  was  on  the  rocks  and  woods 

And  waters ;  for,  methought,  I  was  with  those 

I  had  at  morn  and  even  wished  for  there. 


1  THE  GREAT  ST.   BERNARD. 

NIGHT  was  again  descending,  when  my  mule, 
That  all  day  long  had  climbed  among  the  clouds, 
Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair 
Let  down  from  heaven  itself,  transporting  me, 
Stopped,  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door, 
That  door  which  ever,  as  self-opened,  moves 
To  them  that  knock,  and  nightly  sends  abroad 
Ministering  spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch, 
Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanor  welcomed  me, 


268  ITALY. 

All  meekness,  gentleness,  though  large  of  limb  ; 

And  a  lay-brother  of  the  hospital, 

Who,  as  we  toiled  below,  had  heard  by  fits 

The  distant  echoes  gaining  on  his  ear, 

Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  his  hand 

While  I  alighted.     Long  could  I  have  stood, 

With  a  religious  awe  contemplating 

That  house,  the  highest  in  the  ancient  world, 

And  destined  to  perform  from  age  to  age 

The  noblest  service,  welcoming  as  guests 

All  of  all  nations  and  of  every  faith  ; 

A  temple,  sacred  to  Humanity  ! 12 

It  was  a  pile  of  simplest  masonry, 

With  narrow  window  and  vast  buttresses, 

Built  to  endure  the  shocks  of  time  and  chance ; 

Yet  showing  many  a  rent,  as  well  it  might, 

Warred  on  forever  by  the  elements, 

And  in  an  evil  day,  nor  long  ago, 

By  violent  men  —  when  on  the  mountain -top 

The  French  and  Austrian  banners  met  in  conflict. 

On  the  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  church, 
Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity ; 
The  vesper-bell,  for  't  was  the  vesper  hour, 
Duly  proclaiming  through  the  wilderness, 
"  All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  your  work, 
Stop  for  an  instant  —  move  your  lips  in  prayer  !  " 
And,  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale. — 
If  dale  it  might  be  called,  so  near  to  heaven, — 
A  little  lake,  where  never  fish  leaped  up, 
*<yS  Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow ; 

A  star,  the  only  one  in  that  small  sky, 
On  its  dead  surface  glimmering.     'T  was  a  place 


THE    GREAT   ST.    BERNARD.  269 

Resembling  nothing  I  had  left  behind, 

As  if  all  worldly  ties  were  now  dissolved  ;  — 

And,  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought, 

To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore 

Under  a  beetling  cliff  stood  half  in  gloom 

A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead, 

For  such  as,  having  wandered  from  their  way, 

Had  perished  miserably.     Side  by  side, 

Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company, 

All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them ; 

Their  features  full  of  life,  yet  motionless 

In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change, 

Though  the  barred  windows,  barred  against  the  wolf, 

Are  always  open  !  —  But  the  North  blew  cold ; 

And,  bidden  to  a  spare  but  cheerful  meal, 

I  sate  among  the  holy  brotherhood 

At  their  long  board.     The  fare  indeed  was  such 

As  is  prescribed  on  days  of  abstinence, 

But  might  have  pleased  a  nicer  taste  than  mine ; 

And  through  the  floor  came  up,  an  ancient  crone 

Serving  unseen  below  ;  while  from  the  roof 

(The  roof,  the  floor,  the  walls,  of  native  fir) 

A  lamp  hung  flickering,  such  as  loves  to  fling 

Its  partial  light  on  apostolic  heads, 

And  sheds  a  grace  on  all.     Theirs  Time  as  yet 

Had  changed  not.     Some  were  almost  in  the  prime ; 

Nor  was  a  brow  o'ercast.     Seen  as  they  sate, 

Ranged  round  their  ample  hearth- stone  in  an  hour 

Of  rest,  they  were  as  gay,  as  free  from  guile, 

As  children ;  answering,  and  at  once,  to  all 

The  gentler  impulses,  to  pleasure,  mirth  ; 

Mingling,  at  intervals,  with  rational  talk 


2TO  ITALY. 

Music  ;  and  gathering  news  from  them  that  came, 
As  of  some  other  world.     But  when  the  storm 
Rose,  and  the  snow  rolled  on  in  ocean- waves, 
When  on  his  face  the  experienced  traveller  fell, 
Sheltering  his  lips  and  nostrils  with  his  hands, 
Then  all  was  changed ;  and,  sallying  with  their  pack 
Into  that  blank  of  nature,  they  became 
Unearthly  beings.     "  Anselm,  higher  up, 
Just  where  it  drifts,  a  dog  howls  loud  and  long, 
And  now,  as  guided  by  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
Digs  with  his  feet.     That  noble  vehemence, 
Whose  can  it  be,  but  his  who  never  erred  ? 13 
A  man  lies  underneath  !     Let  us  to  work  !  — 
But  who  descends  MONT  YELAN  ?     'T  is  La  Croix. 
Away,  away  !  if  not,  alas  !    too  late. 
Homeward  he  drags  an  old  man  and  a  boy, 
Faltering  and  falling,  and  but  half  awaked, 
Asking  to  sleep  again."     Such  their  discourse. 

Oft  has  a  venerable  roof  received  me  • 
St.  BRUNO'S  once14 — where,  when  the  winds  were  hushed, 
Nor  from  the  cataract  the  voice  came  up, 
You  might  have  heard  the  mole  work  underground, 
So  great  the  stillness  there  ;  none  seen  throughout, 
Save  when  from  rock  to  rock  a  hermit  crossed 
By  some  rude  bridge  —  or  one  at  midnight  tolled 
To  matins,  and  white  habits,  issuing  forth, 
Glided  along  those  aisles  interminable,15 
All,  all  observant  of  the  sacred  law 
Of  Silence.     Nor  is  that  sequestered  spot, 
Once  called  "  Sweet  Waters,"  now  "  The  Shady  Yale,"  18 
To  me  unknown ;  that  house  so  rich  of  old, 
So  courteous,17  and,  by  two  that  passed  that  way,18 


THE    DESCENT.  271 

Amply  requited  with  immortal  verse, 

The  poet's  payment.  —  But,  among  them  all, 

None  can  with  this  compare,  the  dangerous  seat 

Of  generous,  active  Virtue.     What  though  Frost 

Reign  everlastingly,  and  ice  and  snow 

Thaw  not,  but  gather  —  there  is  that  within, 

Which,  where  it  comes,  makes  Summer ;  and,  in  thought, 

Oft  am  I  sitting  on  the  bench  beneath 

Their  garden-plot,  where  all  that  vegetates 

Is  but  some  scanty  lettuce,  to  observe 

Those  from  the  south  ascending,  every  step 

As  though  it  were  their  last, —  and  instantly 

Restored,  renewed,  advancing  as  with  songs, 

Soon  as  they  see,  turning  a  lofty  crag, 

That  plain,  that  modest  structure,  promising 

Bread  to  the  hungry,  to  the  weary  rest. 


THE  DESCENT. 

MY  mule  refreshed  —  and,  let  the  truth  be  told, 
He  was  nor  dull  nor  contradictory,19 
But  patient,  diligent,  and  sure  of  foot, 
Shunning  the  loose  stone  on  the  precipice, 
Snorting  suspicion  while  with  sight,  smell,  touch, 
Trying,  detecting,  where  the  surface  smiled ; 
And  with  deliberate  courage  sliding  down, 
Where  in  his  sledge  the  Laplander  had  turned 
With  looks  aghast  —  my  mule  refreshed,  his  bells 
Jingled  once  more,  the  signal  to  depart, 
And  we  set  out  in  the  gray  light  of  dawn, 
Descending  rapidly  —  by  waterfalls 


272  ITALY. 

Fast-frozen,  and  among  huge  blocks  of  ice 

That  in  their  long  career  had  stopped  mid-way. 

At  length,  unchecked,  unbidden,  he  stood  still ; 

And  all  his  bells  were  muffled.     Then  my  guide, 

Lowering  his  voice,  addressed  me  :  "  Through  this  gap 

On  and  say  nothing  —  lest  a  word,  a  breath 

Bring  down  a  winter's  snow  —  enough  to  whelm 

The  armed  files  that,  night  and  day,  were  seen 

Winding  from  cliff  to  cliff  in  loose  array 

To  conquer  at  MARENGO.     Though  long  since, 

Well  I  remember  how  I  met  them  here, 

As  the  sun  set  far  down,  purpling  the  west ; 

And  how  NAPOLEOX,  he  himself,  no  less, 

Wrapt  in  his  cloak, —  I  could  not  be  deceived, — 

Reined  in  his  horse,  and  asked  me,  as  I  passed, 

How  far  'twas  to  St.  Remi.     Where  the  rock 

Juts  forward,  and  the  road,  crumbling  awray, 

Narrows  almost  to  nothing  at  the  base, 

'T  was  there ;  and  down  along  the  brink  he  led 

To  victory  !  —  DESAIX, 'M  who  turned  the  scale, 

Leaving  his  life-blood  in  that  famous  field 

(When  the  clouds  break,  we  may  discern  the  spot 

In  the  blue  haze),  sleeps,  a,s  you  saw  at  dawn, 

Just  where  we  entered,  in  the  Hospital-church. " 

So  saying,  for  a  while  he  held  his  peace, 

Awe-struck  beneath  that  dreadful  canopy ; 

But  soon,  the  danger  passed,  launched  forth  again. 

,    v> 

V  V' 

p 

A 


JORASSE. 


JORASSE. 

JORASSE  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth  year ; 

Graceful  and  active  as  a  stag  just  roused ; 

Gentle  withal,  and  pleasant  in  his  speech, 

Yet  seldom  seen  to  smile.     He  had  grown  up 

Among  the  hunters  of  the  Higher  Alps ; 

Had  caught  their  starts  and  fits  of  thoughtfulness, 

Their  haggard  looks,  and  strange  soliloquies. 

Arising  (so  say  they  that  dwell  below) 

From  frequent  dealings  with  the  Mountain- Spirits. 

But  other  ways  had  taught  him  better  things ; 

And  now  he  numbered,  marching  by  my  side, 

The  great,  the  learned,  that  with  him  had  crossed 

The  frozen  tract  —  with  him  familiarly 

Through  the  rough  day  and  rougher  night  conversed 

In  many  a  chalet  round  the  Peak  of  Terror,21 

Round  Tacul,  Tour,  Well-horn,  and  Rosenlau, 

And  her  whose  throne  is  inaccessible,22 

Who  sits,  withdrawn  in  virgin  majesty, 

Nor  oft  unveils.     Anon  an  Avalanche 

Rolled  its  long  thunder ;  and  a  sudden  crash, 

Sharp  and  metallic,  to  the  startled  ear 

Told  that  far-down  a  continent  of  ice 

Had  burst  in  twain.     But  he  had  now  begun ; 

And  with  what  transport  he  recalled  the  hour 

When,  to  deserve,  to  win  his  blooming  bride, 

Madelaine  of  Annecy,  to  his  feet  he  bound 

The  iron  crampons,  and,  ascending,  trod 

The  upper  realms  of  frost ;  then,  by  a  cord 

Let  half-way  down,  entered  a  grot  star-bright, 

And  gathered  from  above,  below,  around,23 


274  ITALY. 

The  pointed  crystals  !  —  Once,  nor  long  before 24 
(Thus  did  his  tongue  run  on,  fast  as  his  feet, 
And  with  an  eloquence  that  Nature  gives 
To  all  her  children  —  breaking  off  by  starts 
Into  the  harsh  and  rude,  oft  as  the  mule 
Drew  his  displeasure),  once,  nor  long  before, 
Alone  at  day-break  on  the  Mettenberg 
He  slipped  and  fell ;  and,  through  a  fearful  cleft 
Gliding  insensibly  from  ledge  to  ledge, 
From  deep  to  deeper  and  to  deeper  still, 
Went  to  the  Under- world  !    Long  while  he  lay 
Upon  his  rugged  bed  —  then  waked  like  one 
Wishing  to  sleep  again  and  sleep  forever ! 
For,  looking  round,  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw, 
Innumerable  branches  of  a  cave, 
Winding  beneath  that  solid  crust  of  ice ; 
With  here  and  there  a  rent  that  showed  the  stars  ! 
What  then,  alas  !  was  left  him  but  to  die  ? 
What  else  in  those  immeasurable  chambers, 
Strewn  with  the  bones  of  miserable  men, 
Lost  like  himself?     Yet  must  he  wander  on, 
Till  cold  and  hunger  set  his  spirit  free  ! 
And,  rising,  he  began  his  dreary  round ; 
When  hark  !  the  noise  as  of  some  mighty  flood 
Working  its  way  to  light !    Back  he  withdrew, 
But  soon  returned,  and,  fearless  from  despair, 
Dashed  down  the  dismal  channel ;  and  all  day 
If  day  could  be  where  utter  darkness  was, 
Travelled  incessantly ;  the  craggy  roof 
Just  overhead,  and  the  impetuous  waves, 
Nor  broad  nor  deep,  yet  with  a  giant's  strength, 
Lashing  him  on.     At  last  as  in  a  pool 


JORASSE.  275 

The  water  slept ;  a  pool  sullen,  profound, 

Where,  if  a  billow  chanced  to  heave  and  swell, 

It  broke  not ;  and  the  roof,  descending,  lay 

Flat  on  the  surface.     Statue-like  he  stood, 

His  journey  ended ;  when  a  ray  divine 

Shot  through  his  soul.    Breathing  a  prayer  to  Her 

Whose  ears  are  never  shut,  the  Blessed  Virgin, 

He  plunged  and  swam  —  and  in  an  instant  rose, 

The  barrier  passed,  in  sunshine  !     Through  a  vale, 

Such  as  in  ARCADY,  where  many  a  thatch 

Gleams  through  the  trees,  half  seen  and  half  embowered. 

Glittering  the  river  ran  ;  and  on  the  bank 

The  young  were  dancing  ('t  was  a  festival-day) 

All  in  their  best  attire.     There  first  he  saw 

His  Madelaine.     In  the  crowd  she  stood  to  hear, 

When  all  drew  round,  inquiring  ;  and  her  face, 

Seen  behind  all  and  varying,  as  he  spoke, 

With  hope  and  fear  and  generous  sympathy, 

Subdued  him.     From  that  very  hour  he  loved. 

The  tale  was  long,  but  coming  to  a  close. 
When  his  wild  eyes  flashed  fire ;  and,  all  forgot, 
He  listened  and  looked  up.     I  looked  up  too  ; 
And  twice  there  came  a  hiss  that  through  me  thrilled ! 
'T  was  heard  no  more.     A  chamois  on  the  cliff 
Had  roused  his  fellows  with  that  cry  of  fear, 
And  all  were  gone.    But  now  the  theme  was  changed ; 
And  he  recounted  his  hair-breadth  escapes, 
When  with  his  friend,  Hubert  of  Bionnay 
(His  ancient  carbine  from  his  shoulder  slung, 
His  axe  to  hew  a  stair- way  in  the  ice), 
He  tracked  their  wanderings.     By  a  cloud  surprised, 
Where  the  next  step  had  plunged  them  into  air, 


276  ITALY. 

Long  had  they  stood,  locked  in  each  other's  arms, 

Amid  the  gulfs  that  yawned  to  swallow  them ; 

Each  guarding  each  through  many  a  freezing  hour 

As  on  some  temple's  highest  pinnacle, 

From  treacherous  slumber.     0,  it  was  a  sport 

Dearer  than  life,  and  but  with  life  relinquished  ! 

' '  My  sire,  my  grandsire  died  among  these  wilds. 

As  for  myself,"  he  cried,  and  he  held  forth 

His  wallet  in  his  hand,  "  this  do  I  call 

My  winding-sheet  —  for  I  shall  have  no  other  ! " 

And  he  spoke  truth.     Within  a  little  month 
He  lay  among  these  awful  solitudes 
('T  was  on  a  glacier —  half-way  up  to  heaven), 
Taking  his  final  rest.     Long  did  his  wife, 
Suckling  her  babe,  her  only  one,  look  out 
The  way  he  went  at  parting.^-  but  he  came  nut : 
Long  fear  to  close  her  eyes,  from  dusk  till  dawn 
Plying  her  distaff  through  the  silent  hours, 
Lest  he  appear  before  her  —  lest  in  sleep, 
If  sleep  steal  on,  he  come  as  all  are  wont, 
Frozen  and  ghastly  blue  or  black  with  gore, 
To  plead  for  the  last  rite. 


MARGUERITE  DE  TOURS. 

Now  the  gray  granite,  starting  through  the  snow, 
Discovered  many  a  variegated  moss  ~5 
That  to  the  pilgrim  resting  on  his  staff 
Shadows  out  capes  and  islands ;  and  ere  long 
Numberless  flowers,  such  as  disdain  to  live 
In  lower  regions,  and  delighted  drink 


MARGUERITE   DE   TOURS.  277 

The  clouds  before  they  fall,  flowers  of  all  hues, 
With  their  diminutive  leaves  covered  the  ground. 
There,  turning  by  a  venerable  larch, 
Shivered  in  two  yet  most  majestical 
With  his  long  level  branches,  we  observed 
A  human  figure  sitting  on  a  stone 
Far  down  by  the  way-side  — just  where  the  rock 
Is  riven  asunder,  and  the  Evil  One 
Has  bridged  the  gulf,  a  wondrous  monument26 
Built  in  one  night,  from  which  the  flood  beneath, 
Raging  along,  all  foam,  is  seen,  not  heard, 
And  seen  as  motionless  !  —  Nearer  we  drew ; 
And,  lo  !  a  woman  young  and  delicate, 
Wrapt  in  a  russet  cloak  from  head  to  foot, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 
In  deepest  thought.     Over  her  tresses  fair. 
Young  as  she  was,  she  wore  the  matron-cap : 
And,  as  we  judged,  not  many  moons  would  change 
Ere  she  became  a  mother.     Pale  she  looked, 
Yet  cheerful ;  though,  methought,  once,  if  not  twice, 
She  wiped  away  a  tear  that  would  be  coming ; 
And  in  those  moments  her  small  hat  of  straw, 
Worn  on  one  side,  and  glittering  with  a  band 
Of  silk  and  gold,  but  ill  concealed  a  face 
Not  soon  to  be  forgotten.     Rising  up 
On  our  approach,  she  travelled  slowly  on ; 
And  my  companion,  long  before  we  met, 
Knew,  and  ran  down  to  greet  her.     She  was  born 
(Such  was  her  artless  tale,  told  with  fresh  tears) 
In  VAL  r>' AOSTA  ;  and  an  Alpine  stream, 
Leaping  from  crag  to  crag  in  its  short  course 
To  join  the  DORA,  turned  her  father's  mill. 
24 


278  ITALY. 

There  did  she  blossom,  till  a  Valaisan, 
A  townsman  of  MABTIGNY,  won  her  heart. 
Much  to  the  old  man's  grief.     Long  he  refused, 
Loth  to  be  left ;  disconsolate  at  the  thought. 
She  was  his  only  one,  his  link  to  life  ; 
And  in  despair  — •  year  after  year  gone  by  — 
One  summer-morn  they  stole  a  match  and  fled. 
The  act  was  sudden ;  and,  when  far  away, 
Her  spirit  had  misgivings.     Then,  full  oft, 
She  pictured  to  herself  that  aged  face 
Sickly  and  wan,  in  sorrow,  not  in  wrath  ; 
And,  when  at  last  she  heard  his  hour  was  near, 
Went  forth  unseen,  and,  burdened  as  she  was, 
Crossed  the  high  Alps  on  foot  to  ask  forgiveness, 
And  hold  him  to  her  heart  before  he  died. 
Her  task  was  done.     She  had  fulfilled  her  wish, 
And  now  was  on  her  way,  rejoicing,  weeping. 
A  frame  like  hers  had  suffered ;  but  her  love 
Was  strong  within  her :  and  right  on  she  went, 
Fearing  no  ill.     May  all  good  angels  guard  her ! 
And  should  I  once  again,  as  once  I  may, 
Visit  MARTIGNY,  I  will  not  forget 
Thy  hospitable  roof,  MARGUERITE  DE  TOURS  ; 
Thy  sign  the  silver  swan.     Heaven  prosper  thee  ! 


THE  BROTHERS. 


IN  the  same  hour  the  breath  of  life  receiving, 
They  came  together  and  were  beautiful ; 
But,  as  they  slumbered  in  their  mother's  lap, 
How  mournful  was  their  beauty  !     She  would  sit, 


THE  BROTHERS.  279 

And  look  and  weep,  and  look  and  weep  again ; 
For  Nature  had  but  half  her  work  achieved, 
Denying,  like  a  step-dame,  to  the  babes 
Her  noblest  gifts ;  denying  speech  to  one, 
And  to  the  other  —  reason. 

But  at  length 

(Seven  years  gone  by,  seven  melancholy  years) 
Another  came,  as  fair  and  fairer  still ; 
And  then,  how  anxiously  the  mother  watched 
Till  reason  dawned  and  speech  declared  itself ! 
Reason  and  speech  were  his  ;  and  down  she  knelt, 
Clasping  her  hands  in  silent  ecstasy. 

On  the  hill-side,  where  still  their  cottage  stands 
('T  is  near  the  upper  falls  in  Lauterbrounn ; 
For  there  I  sheltered  now,  their  frugal  hearth 
Blazing  with  mountain-pine  when  I  appeared, 
And  there,  as  round  they  sate,  I  heard  their  story), 
On  the  hill-side,  among  the  cataracts, 
In  happy  ignorance  the  children  played ; 
Alike  unconscious,  through  their  cloudless  day, 
Of  what  they  had  and  had  not ;  everywhere 
Gathering  rock-flowers ;  or,  with  their  utmost  might, 
Loosening  the  fragment  from  the  precipice, 
And,  as  it  tumbled,  listening  for  the  plunge ; 
Yet,  as  by  instinct,  at  the  customed  hour 
Returning ;  the  two  eldest,  step  by  step, 
Lifting  along,  and  with  the  tenderest  care, 
Their  infant  brother. 

Once  the  hour  was  past ; 

And,  when  she  sought,  she  sought  and  could  not  find ; 
And  when  she  found  —  where  was  the  little  one  ? 


280  ITALY. 

Alas  !  they  answered  not ;  yet  still  she  asked, 
Still  in  her  grief  forgetting. 

With  a  scream, 

Such  as  an  eagle  sends  forth  when  he  soars, 
A  scream  that  through  the  wild  scatters  dismay, 
The  idiot-boy  looked  up  into  the  sky, 
And  leaped  and  laughed  aloud  and  leaped  again ; 
As  if  he  wished  to  follow  in  its  flight 
Something  just  gone,  and  gone  from  earth  to  heaven : 
While  he,  whose  every  gesture,  every  look, 
Went  to  the  heart,  for  from  the  heart  it  came,27 
He  who  nor  spoke  nor  heard  —  all  things  to  him, 
Day  after  day,  as  silent  as  the  grave 
(To  him  unknown  the  melody  of  birds, 
Of  waters  —  and  the  voice  that  should  have  soothed 
His  infant  sorrows,  singing  him  to  sleep), 
Fled  to  her  mantle  as  for  refuge  there, 
And,  as  at  once  o'ercome  with  fear  and  grief, 
Covered  his  head  and  wept.     A  dreadful  thought 
Flashed  through  her  brain.   ' '  Has  not  some  bird  of  prey, 
Thirsting  to  dip  his  beak  in  innocent  blood  — 
It  must,  it  must  be  so  !  "—And  so  it  was. 

There  was  an  eagle  that  had  long  acquired 
Absolute  sway,  the  lord  of  a  domain 
Savage,  sublime  ;  nor  from  the  hills  alone 
Gathering  large  tribute,  but  from  every  vale  ; 
Making  the  ewe,  whene'er  he  deigned  to  stoop, 
Bleat  for  the  lamb.     Great  was  the  recompense 
Assured  to  him  who  laid  the  tyrant  low ; 
And  near  his  nest  in  that  eventful  hour, 
Calmly  and  patiently,  a  hunter  stood, 


THE    ALPS.  281 

A  hunter,  as  it  chanced,  of  old  renown, 
And,  as  it  chanced,  their  father. 

In  the  South 

A  speck  appeared,  enlarging  ;  and  ere  long, 
As  on  his  journey  to  the  golden  sun, 
Upward  he  came,  the  felon  in  his  flight, 
Ascending  through  the  congregated  clouds, 
That,  like  a  dark  and  troubled  sea,  obscured 
The  world  beneath.     "  But  what  is  in  his  grasp  ? 
Ha  !  't  is  a  child  —  and  may  it  not  be  ours  ? 
I  dare  not,  cannot ;  and  yet  why  forbear, 
When,  if  it  lives,  a  cruel  death  awaits  it  ?  — 
May  He  who  winged  the  shaft  when  Tell  stood  forth 
And  shot  the  apple  from  the  youngling's  head,28 
Grant  me  the  strength,  the  courage  !  "     As  he  spoke, 
6e  aimed,  he  fired ;  and  at  his  feet  they  fell, 
The  eagle  and  the  child  —  the  child  unhurt  — 
Though,  such  the  grasp,  not  even  in  death  relinquished.29 


THE    ALPS. 

WHO  first  beholds  those  everlasting  clouds, 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  morning,  noon  and  night, 
Still  where  they  were,  steadfast,  immovable, — 
Those  mighty  hills,  so  shadowy,  so  sublime, 
As  rather  to  belong  to  heaven  than  earth,— 
But  instantly  receives  into  his  soul 
A  sense,  a  feeling  that  he  loses  not, 
A  something  that  informs  him  't  is  an  hour 
Whence  he  may  date  henceforward  and  forever  ? 
To  me  they  seemed  the  barriers  of  a  world, 
24* 


282  ITALY. 

Saying,  Thus  far,  no  further  !  and  as  o'er 
The  level  plain  I  travelled  silently, 
Nearing  them  more  and  more,  day  after  day, 
My  wandering  thoughts  my  only  company, 
And  they  before  me  still  —  oft  as  I  looked, 
A  strange  delight  was  mine,  mingled  with  fear, 
A  wonder  as  at  things  I  had  not  heard  of ! 
And  still  and  still  I  felt  as  if  I  gazed 
For  the  first  time  !     Great  was  the  tumult  there, 
Deafening  the  din  when  in  barbaric  pomp 
The  Carthaginian  on  his  march  to  ROME 
Entered  their  fastnesses.     Trampling  the  snows, 
The  war-horse  reared ;  and  the  towered  elephant 
Upturned  his  trunk  into  the  murky  sky, 
Then  tumbled  headlong,  swallowed  up  and  lost, 
He  and  his  rider. 

Now  the  scene  is  changed  ; 
And  o'er  the  Simplon,  o'er  the  Splugen,  winds 
A  path  of  pleasure.     Like  a  silver  zone 
Flung  about  carelessly,  it  shines  afar, 
Catching  the  eye  in  many  a  broken  link, 
In  many  a  turn  and  traverse  as  it  glides ; 
And  oft  above  and  oft  below  appears, 
Seen  o'er  the  wall  by  him  who  journeys  up, 
As  if  it  were  another,  through  the  wild 
Leading  along  he  knows  not  whence  or  whither. 
Yet  through  its  fairy  course,  go  where  it  will, 
The  torrent  stops  it  not,  the  rugged  rock 
Opens  and  lets  it  in  ;  and  on  it  runs, 
Winning  its  easy  way  from  clime  to  clime 
Through  glens  locked  up  before. — Not  such  my  path 
The  very  path  for  them  that  dare  defy 


COMO.  283 

Danger,  nor  shrink,  wear  he  what  shape  he  will ; 
That  o'er  the  caldron,  when  the  flood  boils  up, 
Hang  as  in  air,  gazing  and  shuddering  on 
Till  fascination  comes  and  the  brain  turns ! m 
The  very  path  for  them,  that  list,  to  choose 
Where  best  to  plant  a  monumental  cross, 
And  live  in  story  like  EMPEDOCLES; 
A  track  for  heroes,  such  as  he  who  came, 
Ere  long,  to  win,  to  wear  the  iron  crown ; 
And  (if  aright  I  judge  from  what  I  felt 
Over  the  DRANCE,  just  where  the  Abbot  fell, 
Rolled  downward  in  an  after-dinner's  sleep) 31 
The  same  as  HANNIBAL'S.     But  now  't  is  passed, 
That  turbulent  chaos ;  and  the  promised  land 
Lies  at  my  feet  in  all  its  loveliness ! 
To  him  who  starts  up  from  a  terrible  dream, 
And,  lo  !  the  sun  is  shining,  and  the  lark 
Singing  aloud  for  joy  —  to  him  is  not 
Such  sudden  ravishment  as  now  I  feel 
At  the  first  glimpses  of  fair  ITALY. 


COMO. 

I  LOVE  to  sail  along  the  LARIAN  Lake32 

Under  the  shore  —  though  not,  where'er  he  dwelt,33 

To  visit  PLINY  ;  not,  in  loose  attire, 

When  from  the  bath  or  from  the  tennis-court, 

To  catch  him  musing  in  his  plane-tree  walk, 

Or  angling  from  his  window  :  M  and,  in  truth, 

Could  I  recall  the  ages  past  and  play 

The  fool  with  Time,  I  should  perhaps  reserve 


284  ITALY. 

My  leisure  for  Catullus  on  his  lake,35 
Though  to  fare  worse,  or  VIRGIL  at  his  farm 
A  little  further  on  the  way  to  MANTUA. 
But  such  things  cannot  be.     So  I  sit  still, 
And  let  the  boatman  shift  his  little  sail, 
His  sail  so  forked  and  so  swallow-like, 
Well-pleased  with  all  that  comes.     The  morning-air 
Plays  on  my  cheek  how  gently,  flinging  round 
A  silvery  gleam  !  and  now  the  purple  mists 
Rise  like  a  curtain ;  now  the  sun  looks  out, 
Filling,  o'erflowing  with  his  glorious  light 
This  noble  amphitheatre  of  hills ; 
And  now  appear  as  on  a  phosphor-sea 
Numberless  barks,  from  MILAN,  from  PA  VIA  ; 
Some  sailing  up,  some  down,  and  some  at  rest, 
Lading,  unlading  at  that  small  port-town 
Under  the  promontory  —  its  tall  tower 
And  long  flat  roofs,  just  such  as  GASPAR  drew, 
Caught  by  a  sunbeam  slanting  through  a  cloud ; 
A  quay-like  scene,  glittering  and  full  of  life, 
And  doubled  by  reflection. 

What  delight, 

After  so  long  a  sojourn  in  the  wild, 
To  hear  once  more  the  peasant  at  his  work ! 
—  But  in  a  clime  like  this  where  is  he  not  ? 
Along  the  shores,  among  the  hills,  'tis  now 
The  hey-day  of  the  vintage ;  all  abroad, 
But  most  the  young  and  of  the  gentler  sex. 
Busy  in  gathering ;  all  among  the  vines, 
Some  on  the  ladder  and  some  underneath, 
Filling  their  baskets  of  green  wicker-work, 
While  many  a  canzonet  and  frolic  laugh 


COMO.  285 

Come  through  the  leaves ;  the  vines  in  light  festoons 

From  tree  to  tree,  the  trees  in  avenues, 

And  every  avenue  a  covered  walk 

Hung  with  black  clusters.     'Tis  enough  to  make 

The  sad  man  merry,  the  benevolent  one 

Melt  into  tears  —  so  general  is  the  joy  ! 

While  up  and  down  the  cliffs,  over  the  lake, 

Wains  oxen-drawn  and  panniered  mules  are  seen, 

Laden  with  grapes  and  dropping  rosy  wine. 

Here  I  received  from  thee,  BASILICO, 

One  of  those  courtesies  so  sweet,  so  rare  ! 

When,  as  I  rambled  through  thy  vineyard  ground 

On  the  hill-side,  thy  little  son  was  sent, 

Charged  with  a  bunch  almost  as  big  as  he, 

To  press  it  on  the  stranger.     May  thy  vats 

O'erflow,  and  he,  thy  willing  gift-bearer, 

Live  to  become  a  giver ;  and,  at  length, 

When  thou  art  full  of  honor  and  wouldst  rest, 

The  staff  of  thine  old  age  ! 

In  a  strange  land 

Such  things,  however  trivial,  reach  the  heart, 
And  through  the  heart  the  head,  clearing  away 
The  narrow  notions  that  grow  up  at  home, 
And  in  their  place  grafting  good- will  to  all. 
At  least  I  found  it  so,  nor  less  at  eve, 
When,  bidden  as  a  lonely  traveller 
('T  was  by  a  little  boat  that  gave  me  chase 
With  oar  and  sail,  as  homeward-bound  I  crossed 
The  bay  of  TKAMEZZLNE),  right  readily 
I  turned  my  prow  and  followed,  landing  soon 
Where  steps  of  purest  marble  met  the  wave ; 


286  ITALY. 

Where,  through  the  trellises  and  corridors, 

Soft  music  came  as  from  ARMIDA'S  palace, 

Breathing  enchantment  o'er  the  woods  and  waters; 

And  through  a  bright  pavilion,  bright  as  day, 

Forms  such  as  hers  were  flitting,  lost  among 

Such  as  of  old  in  sober  pomp  swept  by, 

Such  as  adorn  the  triumphs  and  the  feasts 

By  PAOLO  w  painted  :  where  a  fairy-queen, 

That  night  her  birth-night,  from  her  throne  received 

(Young  as  she  was,  no  floweret  in  her  crown, 

Hyacinth  or  rose,  so  fair  and  fresh  as  she) 

Our  willing  vows,  and  by  the  fountain-side 

Led  in  the  dance,  disporting  as  she  pleased, 

Under  a  starry  sky  —  while  I  looked  on, 

As  in  a  glade  of  CASHMERE  or  SHIRAZ, 

Reclining,  quenching  my  sherbet  in  snow, 

And  reading  in  the  eyes  that  sparkled  round 

The  thousand  love-adventures  written  there. 

Can  I  forget  —  no,  never,  such  a  scene, 
So  full  of  witchery.     Night  lingered  still, 
When  with  a  dying  breeze  I  left  BELLAGGIO  ; 
But  the  strain  followed  me  ;  and  still  I  saw 
Thy  smile,  ANGELICA  ;  and  still  I  heard 
Thy  voice  —  once  and  again  bidding  adieu. 


BERGAMO. 

THE  song  was  one  that  I  had  heard  before, 
But  where  I  knew  not.     It  inclined  to  sadness 
And,  turning  round  from  the  delicious  fare 
My  landlord's  little  daughter  BARBARA 


BERGAMO.  287 

Had  from  her  apron  just  rolled  out  before  me, 

Figs  and  rock-melons  —  at  the  door  I  saw 

Two  boys  of  lively  aspect.     Peasant-like 

They  were,  and  poorly  clad,  but  not  unskilled  ; 

With  their  small  voices  and  an  old  guitar 

Winning  their  way  to  my  unguarded  heart 

In  that,  the  only  universal  tongue. 

But  soon  they  changed  the  measure,  entering  on 

A  pleasant  dialogue  of  sweet  and  sour, 

A  war  of  words,  with  looks  and  gestures  waged 

Between  TRAPPANTI  and  his  ancient  dame, 

MONA  LTJCILIA.     To  and  fro  it  went ; 

While  many  a  titter  on  the  stairs  was  heard, 

And  BARBARA'S  among  them.     When  it  ceased, 

Their  dark  eyes  flashed  no  longer,  yet,  methought. 

In  many  a  glance  as  from  the  soul,  disclosed 

More  than  enough  to  serve  them.     Far  or  near, 

Few  looked  not  for  their  coming  ere  they  came, 

Few,  when  they  went,  but  looked  till  they  were  gone ; 

And  not  a  matron,  sitting  at  her  wheel, 

But  could  repeat  their  story.     Twins  they  were, 

And  orphans,  as  I  learnt,  cast  on  the  world ; 

Their  parents  lost  in  an  old  ferry-boat 

That,  three  years  since,  last  Martinmas,  went  down, 

Crossing  the  rough  BENACUS.37  —  May  they  live 

Blameless  and  happy  —  rich  they  cannot  be, 

Like  him  who,  in  the  days  of  minstrelsy,'38 

Came  in  a  beggar's  weeds  to  PETRARCH'S  door, 

Asking,  beseeching  for  a  lay  to  sing, 

And  soon  in  silk  (such  then  the  power  of  song) 

Returned  to  thank  him ;  or  like  that  old  man, 

Old  not  in  heart,  who  by  the  torrent-side 


288  ITALY. 

Descending  from  the  TYROL,  as  night  fell, 

Knocked  at  a  city-gate  near  the  hill-foot, 

The  gate  that  bore  so  long,  sculptured  in  stone, 

An  eagle  on  a  ladder,  and  at  once 

Found  welcome  —  nightly  in  the  bannered  hall 

Tuning  his  harp  to  tales  of  chivalry 

Before  the  great  MASTING,  and  his  guests,39 

The  three-and-twenty  kings,  by  adverse  fate, 

By  war  or  treason  or  domestic  strife, 

Reft  of  their  kingdoms,  friendless,  shelterless, 

And  living  on  his  bounty. 

But  who  comes, 

Brushing  the  floor  with  what  was  once,  methinks, 
A  hat  of  ceremony  ?     On  he  glides, 
Slip-shod,  ungartered ;  his  long  suit  of  black 
Dingy,  thread-bare,  though,  patch  by  patch,  renewed 
Till  it  has  almost  ceased  to  be  the  same. 
At  length  arrived,  and  with  a  shrug  that  pleads 
"  'T  is  my  necessity  !  "  he  stops  and  speaks, 
Screwing  a  smile  into  his  dinnerless  face. 
"  Blame  not  a  poet,  signer,  for  his  zeal — 
When  all  are  on  the  wing,  who  would  be  last  ? 
The  splendor  of  thy  name  has  gone  before  thee ; 
And  ITALY  from  sea  to  sea  exults, 
As  well  indeed  she  may  !     But  I  transgress.40 
He,  who  has  known  the  weight  of  praise  himself. 
Should  spare  another."     Saying  so,  he  laid 
His  sonnet,  an  impromptu,  at  my  feet 
(If  his,  then  PETRARCH  must  have  stolen  it  from  him), 
And  bowed  and  left  me  ;  in  his  hollow  hand 
Receiving  my  small  tribute,  a  zecchine, 
Unconsciously,  as  doctors  do  their  fees. 


ITALY.  289 

My  omelet,  and  a  flagon  of  hill-wine,41 
Pure  as  the  virgin-spring,  had  happily 
Fled  from  all  eyes ;  or,  in  a  waking  dream, 
I  might  have  sat  as  many  a  great  man  has, 
And  many  a  small,  like  him  of  Santillane, 
Bartering  my  bread  and  salt  for  empty  praise.42 


ITALY. 

AM  I  in  ITALY  ?     Is  this  the  Mincius  ? 

Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona  ? 

And  shall  I  sup  where  JULIET  at  the  masque  ** 

Saw  her  loved  MONTAGUE,  and  now  sleeps  by  him  1 

Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself ; 44 

And  not  a  stone,  in  a  cross- way,  inscribed 

"To  Mantua  "  —  "  To  Ferrara  "  * — but  excites 

i  Surprise,  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation. 

0  ITALY,  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Yet  I  could  weep  —  for  thou  art  lying,  alas  ! 
^v,Low  in  the  dust ;  and  we  admire  thee  now 
As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  death. 
Thine  was  a  dangerous  gift,  when  thou  wert  born, 
The  gift  of  Beauty.     Would  thou  hadst  it  not ; 
Or  wert  as  once,  awing  the  caitiffs  vile 
That  now  beset  thee,  making  thee  their  slave ! 
Would  they  had  loved  thee  less,  or  feared  thee  more !  * 
— But  why  despair?  Twice  hast  thou  lived  already ; 47 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world, 
As  the  sun  shines  among  the  lesser  lights 
Of  heaven  ;  and  shalt  again.     The  hour  shall  come, 
When  they  who  think  to  bind  the  ethereal  spirit, 
25 


290  ITALY. 

Who,  like  the  eagle  cowering  o'er  his  prey, 
Watch  with  quick  eye,  and  strike  and  strike  again 
If  but  a  sinew  vibrate,48  shall  confess 
Their  wisdom  folly.     Even  now  the  flame 
Bursts  forth  where  once  it  burnt  so  gloriously, 
And,  dying,  left  a  splendor  like  the  day, 
That  like  the  day  diffused  itself,  and  still 
Blesses  the  earth  —  the  light  of  genius,  virtue, 
Greatness  in  thought  and  act,  contempt  of  death, 
Godlike  example.     Echoes  that  have  slept 
Since  ATHENS,  LACEDJEMON,  were  themselves, 
Since  men  invoked  "  By  those  in  MARATHON  !  " 
Awake  along  the  AEGEAN ;  and  the  dead, 
They  of  that  sacred  shore,  have  heard  the  call. 
And  through  the  ranks,  from  wing  to  wing,  are  seen 
Moving  as  once  they  were  —  instead  of  rage 
Breathing  deliberate  valor. 


COLL'ALTO. 

"  IN  this  neglected  mirror  (the  broad  frame 

Of  massy  silver  serves  to  testify 

That  many  a  noble  matron  of  the  house 

Has  sat  before  it)  once,  alas  !  was  seen 

What  led  to  many  sorrows.     From  that  time 

The  bat  came  hither  for  a  sleeping  place  ; 49 

And  he,  who  cursed  another  in  his  heart, 

Said,  l  Be  thy  dwelling,  through  the  day  and  night, 

Shunned  like  COLL'ALTO.'"  — 'Twas  in  that  old  pile, 

Which  flanks  the  cliff  with  its  gray  battlements 

Flung  here  and  there,  and,  like  an  eagle's  nest, 


COLL' ALTO.  291 

Hangs  in  the  THE  vis  AN,  that  thus  the  steward, 

Shaking  his  locks,  the  few  that  Time  had  left. 

Addressed  me,  as  we  entered  what  was  called 

"  My  Lady's  Chamber."     On  the  walls,  the  chairs. 

Much  yet  remained  of  the  rich  tapestry ; 

Much  of  the  adventures  of  SIR  LAUNCELOT 

In  the  green  glades  of  some  enchanted  wood. 

The  toilet-table  was  of  silver  wrought, 

Florentine  art,  when  Florence  was  renowned ; 

A  gay  confusion  of  the  elements, 

Dolphins  and  boys,  and  shells  and  fruits  and  flowers : 

And  from  the  ceiling,  in  his  gilded  cage, 

Hung  a  small  bird  of  curious  workmanship, 

That,  when  his  mistress  bade  him,  would  unfold 

(So  says  the  babbling  dame,  Tradition,  there) 

His  emerald-wings,  and  sing  and  sing  again 

The  song  that  pleased  her.    While  I  stood  and  looked, 

A  gleam  of  day  yet  lingering  in  the  west, 

The  steward  went  on.    "  She  had  ('t  is  now  long  since) 

A  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  CRISTINE, 

Fair  as  a  lily,  and  as  spotless  too ; 

None  so  admired,  beloved.     They  had  grown  up 

As  play-fellows  ;  and  some  there  were,  that  said, 

Some  that  knew  much,  discoursing  of  CRISTINE, 

1  She  is  not  what  she  seems.'     When  unrequired, 

She  would  steal  forth ;  her  custom,  her  delight, 

To  wander  through  and  through  an  ancient  grove 

Self-planted  half-way  down,  losing  herself 

Like  one  in  love  with  sadness  ;  and  her  veil 

And  vesture  white,  seen  ever  in  that  place, 

Ever  as  surely  as  the  hours  came  round. 

Among  those  reverend  trees,  gave  her  below 


292  ITALY. 

The  name  of  The  White  Lady.  —  But  the  day 
Is  gone,  and  I  delay  thee. 

In  that  chair 

The  Countess,  as  it  might  be  now,  was  sitting, 
Her  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  CRISTINE, 
Combing  her  golden  hair ;  and  through  this  door 
The  Count,  her  lord,  was  hastening,  called  away 
By  letters  of  great  urgency  to  VENICE  ; 
When  in  the  glass  she  saw,  as  she  believed 
('Twas  an  illusion  of  the  Evil  One  — 
Some  say  he  came  and  crossed  it  at  the  time), 
A  smile,  a  glance  at  parting,  given  and  answered, 
That  turned  her  blood  to  gall.     That  very  night 
The  deed  was  done.    That  night,  ere  yet  the  moon 
Was  up  on  Monte  Calvo,  and  the  wolf 
Baying  as  still  he  does  (oft  is  he  heard, 
An  hour  and  more,  by  the  old  turret-clock), 
They  led  her  forth,  the  unhappy  lost  CRISTINE, 
Helping  her  down  in  her  distress  —  to  die. 

"  No  blood  was  spilt ;  no  instrument  of  death 
Lurked  —  or  stood  forth,  declaring"  its  bad  purpose  ; 
Nor  was  a  hair  of  hei^jbleniished  head 
Hurt  in  that  hour/^Presh  as  a  flower  just  blown, 
And  warm  withHTife,  her  youthful  pulses  playing, 
She  was  walled  up  within  the  castle-wall.53 
The  wall  itself  was  hollowed  secretly ; 
Then  closed  again,  and  done  to  line  and  rule, 
Wouldst  thou  descend  ?  -     -'T  is  in  a  darksome  vault 
Under  the  chapel :  and  there  nightly  now, 
As  in  the  narrow  niche,  when  smooth  and  fair, 
And  as  if  nothing  had  been  done  or  thought, 
The  stone-work  rose  before  her,  till  the  light 


VENICE.  293 

Glimmered  and  went  —  there,  nightly  at  that  hour, 
(Thou  smil'st,  and  would  it  were  an  idle  tale  !) 
In  her  white  veil  and  vesture  white  she  stands 
Shuddering  —  her  eyes  uplifted,  and  her  hands 
Joined  as  in  prayer  ;  then,  like  a  blessed  soul 
Bursting  the  tomb,  springs  forward,  and  away 
Flies  o'er  the  woods  and  mountains.    Issuing  forth, 
The  hunter  meets  her  in  his  hunting-track  ;  61 
The  shepherd  on  the  heath,  starting,  exclaims 
(For  still  she  bears  the  name  she  bore  of  old) 
'  'T  is  the  White  Lady  !  '  " 


VENICE. 

THERE  is  a  glorious  city  in  the  sea. 
The  sea  is  in  the  broad,  the  narrow  streets, 
Ebbing  and  flowing  ;  and  the  salt  sea-weed 
Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 
No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro, 
Lead  to  her  gates.     The  path  lies  o'er  the  sea, 
Invisible  ;  and  from  the  land  we  went, 
As  to  a  floating  city  —  steering  in, 
And  gliding  up  her.  streets  as  in  a  dream, 
So  smoothly,  silently  —  by  many  a  dome, 
Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico, 
The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky  ; 
By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  Eastern  pride, 
Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant-kings  ; 
The  fronts  of  some,  though  Time  had  shattered  them, 
Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art,52 
As  though  the  wealth  within  them  had  run  o'er. 
25* 


294  ITALY. 

Thither  I  come,  and  in  a  wondrous  ark 
(That,  long  before  we  slipt  our  cable,  rang 
As  with  the  voices  of  all  living  things), 
From  PADUA,  where  the  stars  are,  night  by  night, 
Watched  from  the  top  of  an  old  dungeon-tower, 
Whence  blood  ran  once,  the  tower  of  Ezzelin  — 53 
Not  as  he  watched  them,  when  he  read  his  fate 
And  shuddered.     But  of  him  I  thought  not  then, 
Him  or  his  horoscope  ; M  far,  far  from  me 
The  forms  of  Guilt  and  Fear ;  though  some  were  there, 
Sitting  among  us  round  the  cabin-board, 
Some  who,  like  him,  had  cried,  "  Spill  blood  enough  ! " 
And  could  shake  long  at  shadows.     They  had  played 
Their  parts  at  PADUA,  and  were  floating  home, 
Careless  and  full  of  mirth  ;  to-morrow  a  day 
Not  in  their  calendar.55 —  Who,  in  a  strain 
To  make  the  hearer  fold  his  arms  and  sigh, 
Sings,  "Caro,  Caro"?— 'Tis  the  Prima  Donna, 
And  to  her  monkey,  smiling  in  his  face. 
Who,  as  transported,  cries,  "  Brava  !  Ancora"  ? 

-'Tis  a  grave  personage,  an  old  macaw, 
Perched  on  her  shoulder.     But  who  leaps  ashore, 
And  with  a  shout  urges  the  lagging  mules ; 5CJ 
Then  climbs  a  tree  that  overhangs  the  stream, 
And,  like  an  acorn,  drops  on  deck  again  ? 
'T  is  he  who  speaks  not,  stirs  not,  but  we  laugh ; 
That  child  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arlecchino.57 
And  mark  their  poet  —  with  what  emphasis 
He  prompts  the  young  soubrette,  conning  her  part ! 
Her  tongue  plays  truant,  and  he  raps  his  box, 
And  prompts  again  ;  forever  looking  round 
As  if  in  search  of  subjects  for  his  wit, 


VEXICE.  295 

His  satire  ;  and  as  often  whispering 
Things,  though  unheard,  not  unimaginable. 

Had  I  thy  pencil,  CRABBE  (when  thou  hast  done, 
Late  may  it  be  .  .  it  will,  like  PROSPERO'S  staff, 
Be  buried  fifty  fathoms  in  the  earth), 

,    I  would  portray  the  Italian.  —  Now  I  cannot. 
Subtle,  discerning,  eloquent,  the  slave 

S  Of  Love,  of  Hate,  forever  in  extremes  ; 
|  Gentle  when  unprovoked,  easily  won, 
But  quick  in  quarrel  —  through  a  thousand  shades 
His  spirit  flits,  chameleon-like  ;  and  mocks 
The  eye  of  the  observer. 

Gliding  on, 

At  length  we  leave  the  river  for  the  sea. 
At  length  a  voice  aloft  proclaims  "  Venezia  !  " 
And,  as  called  forth,  she  comes. 

A  few  in  fear, 

Flying  away  from  him  whose  boast  it  was58 
That  the  grass  grew  not  where  his  horse  had  trod, 
Gave  birth  to  VENICE.     Like  the  water-fowl, 
They  built  their  nests  among  the  ocean-waves  ; 
And  where  the  sands  were  shifting,  as  the  wind 
Blew  from  the  north  or  south — where  they  that  came 
Had  to  make  sure  the  ground  they  stood  upon, 
Rose,  like  an  exhalation  from  the  deep, 
A  vast  metropolis,59  with  glistering  spires, 
With  theatres,  basilicas  adorned  ; 
A  scene  of  light  and  glory,  a  dominion, 
That  has  endured  the  longest  among  men.00 

And  whence  the  talisman,  whereby  she  rose, 
Towering?     'T  was  found  there  in  the  barren  sea. 
Want  led  to  Enterprise ;  ^  and,  far  or  near, 


296  ITALY. 

Who  met  not  the  Venetian  ?  —  now  among 

The  2EGEAN  Isles,  steering  from  port  to  port, 

Landing  and  bartering  ;  now,  no  stranger  there, 

In  CAIRO,  or  without  the  eastern  gate, 

Ere  yet  the  Cafila62  came,  listening  to  hear 

Its  bells  approaching  from  the  Red- Sea  coast; 

Then  on  the  Euxine,  and  that  smaller  Sea 

Of  Azoph,  in  close  converse  with  the  Russ, 

And  Tartar ;  on  his  lowly  deck  receiving 

Pearls  from  the  Persian  Gulf,  gems  from  Golconde ; 

Eyes  brighter  yet,  that  shed  the  light  of  love, 

From  Georgia,  from  Circassia.     Wandering  round, 

When  in  the  rich  bazaar  he  saw,  displayed, 

Treasures  from  climes  unknown,  he  asked  and  learnt, 

And,  travelling  slowly  upward,  drew  ere  long 

From  the  well-head,  supplying  all  below  ; 

Making  the  imperial  city  of  the  East, 

Herself,  his  tributary.  —  If  we  turn 

To  those  black  forests,  where,  through  many  an  age, 

Night  without  day,  no  axe  the  silence  broke, 

Or  seldom,  save  where  Rhine  or  Danube  rolled  ; 

Where  o'er  the  narrow  glen  a  castle  hangs, 

And,  like  the  wolf  that  hungered  at  his  door, 

The  baron  lived  by  rapine  —  there  we  meet, 

In  warlike  guise,  the  caravan  from  VENICE  ; 

When  on  its  march,  now  lost  and  now  beheld, 

A  glittering  file  (the  trumpet  heard,  the  scout 

Sent  and  recalled),  but  at  a  city-gate 

All  gayety,  and  looked  for  ere  it  comes ; 

Winning  regard  with  all  that  can  attract, 

Cages,  whence  every  wild  cry  of  the  desert, 

Jugglers,  stage-dancers.     Well  might  CHARLEMAIN, 


VENICE.  297 

And  his  brave  peers,  each  with  his  visor  up, 
On  their  long  lances  lean  and  gaze  a  while. 
When  the  Venetian  to  their  eyes  disclosed 
The  wonders  of  the  East !  Well  might  they  then 
Sigh  for  new  conquests  ! 

Thus  did  VENICE  rise, 

Thus  flourish,  till  the  unwelcome  tidings  came. 
That  in  the  TAGUS  had  arrived  a  fleet 
From  INDIA,  from  the  region  of  the  sun, 
Fragrant  with  spices  —  that  a  wray  was  found, 
A  channel  opened,  and  the  golden  stream 
Turned  to  enrich  another.     Then  she  felt 
Her  strength  departing,  yet  a  while  maintained 
Her  state,  her  splendor  ;  till  a  tempest  shook 
All  things  most  held  in  honor  among  men, 
All  that  the  giant  with  the  scythe  had  spared, 
To  their  foundations,  and  at  once  she  fell ;  a3 
She  who  had  stood  yet  longer  than  the  last 
Of  the  four  kingdoms  —  wTho,  as  in  an  ark, 
Had  floated  down,  amid  a  thousand  wrecks, 
Uninjured,  from  the  Old  World  to  the  New, 
From  the  last  glimpse  of  civilized  life  —  to  where 
Light  shone  again,  and  with  the  blaze  of  noon. 

Through  many  an  age  in  the  mid-sea  she  dwelt, 
From  her  retreat  calmly  contemplating 
The  changes  of  the  earth,  herself  unchanged. 
Before  her  passed,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  mightiest  of  the  mighty.     What  are  these, 
Clothed  in  their  purple  ?     O'er  the  globe  they  fling 
Their  monstrous  shadows  ;  and,  while  yet  we  speak, 
Phantom-like,  vanish  with  a  dreadful  scream  ! 
What — but  the  last  that  styled  themselves  the  Caesars  ? 


298  ITALY. 

And  who  in  long  array  (look  where  they  conie ; 

Their  gestures  menacing  so  far  and  wide) 

Wear  the  green  turban  and  the  heron's  plume  1 

Who  —  but  the  Caliphs  ?  followed  fast  by  shapes 

As  new  and  strange  —  Emperor,  and  King,  and  Czar, 

And  Soldan,  each,  with  a  gigantic  stride, 

Trampling  on  all  the  nourishing  works  of  peace 

To  make  his  greatness  greater,  and  inscribe 

His  name  in  blood  —  some,  men  of  steel,  steel-clad ; 

Others,  nor  long,  alas  !    the  interval, 

In  light  and  gay  attire,  with  brow  serene 

Wielding  Jove's  thunder,  scattering  sulphurous  fire 

Mingled  with  darkness  ;  and,  among  the  rest, 

Lo  !  one  by  one,  passing  continually, 

Those  who  assume  a  sway  beyond  them  all ; 

Men  gray  with  age,  each  in  a  triple  crown, 

And  in  his  tremulous  hands  grasping  the  keys 

That  can  alone,  as  he  would  signify, 

Unlock  Heaven's  gate. 


LUIGI. 

HAPPY  is  he  who  loves  companionship, 

And  lights  on  thee,  LUIGI.     Thee  I' found, 

Playing  at  MoRA64  on  the  cabin-roof 

With  Punchinello.  —  'T  is  a  game  to  strike  °5 

Fire  from  the  coldest  heart.     What  then  from  thine  ? 

And,  ere  the  twentieth  throw,  I  had  resolved, 

Won  by  thy  looks.     Thou  wert  an  honest  lad  ; 

Wert  generous,  grateful,  not  without  ambition. 

Had  it  depended  on  thy  will  alone, 


LUIGI.  299 

Thou  wouldst  have  numbered  in  thy  family 
At  least  six  Doges  and  the  first  in  fame. 
But  that  was  not  to  be.     In  thee  I  saw 
The  last,  if  not  the  least,  of  a  long  line, 
Who  in  their  forest,  for  three  hundred  years, 
Had  lived  and  labored,  cutting,  charring  wood ; 
Discovering  where  they  were,  to  those  astray, 
By  the  reechoing  stroke,  the  crash,  the  fall, 
Or  the  blue  wreath  that  travelled  slowly  up 
Into  the  sky.     Thy  nobler  destinies 
Led  thee  away  to  justle  in  the  crowd ; 
And  there  I  found  thee  —  trying  once  again, 
What  for  thyself  thou  hadst  prescribed  so  oft, 
A  change  of  air  and  diet  —  once  again 
Crossing  the  sea,  and  springing  to  the  shore 
As  though  thou  knewest  where  to  dine  and  sleep. 

First  in  BOLOGNA  didst  thou  plant  thyself, 
Serving  behind  a  cardinal's  gouty  chair, 
Listening  and  oft  replying,  jest  for  jest ; 
Then  in  FERRARA,  everything  by  turns, 
So  great  thy  genius  and  so  Proteus-like  ! 
Now  serenading  in  a  lover's  train, 
And  measuring  swords  with  his  antagonist ; 
Now  carving,  cup-bearing  in  halls  of  state  ; 
And  now  a  guide  to  the  lorn  traveller, 
A  very  Cicerone  —  yet,  alas  ! 
How  unlike  him  who  fulmined  in  old  ROME  ! 
Dealing  out  largely  in  exchange  for  pence 
Thy  scraps  of  knowledge  —  through  the  grassy  street 
Leading,  explaining  —  pointing  to  the  bars 
Of  TASSO'S  dungeon,  and  the  Latin  verse, 
Graven  in  the  stone,  that  yet  denotes  the  door 
Of  ARIOSTO. 


300  ITALY. 

Many  a  year  is  gone 

Since  on  the  RHINE  we  parted ;  yet,  methinks, 
I  can  recall  thee  to  the  life,  LUIGI, 
In  our  long  journey  ever  by  my  side  ; 
Thy  locks  jet-black,  and  clustering  round  a  face 
Open  as  day  and  full  of  manly  daring. 
Thou  hadst  a  hand,  a  heart  for  all  that  came, 
Herdsman  or  pedler,  monk  or  muleteer  ; 
And  few  there  were  that  met  thee  not  with  smiles. 
Mishap  passed  o'er  thee  like  a  summer-cloud.66 
Cares  thou  hadst  none  ;  and  they  that  stood  to  hear  thee 
Caught  the  infection  and  forgot  their  own. 
Nature  conceived  thee  in  her  merriest  mood, 
Her  happiest  —  not  a  speck  was  in  the  sky ; 
And  at  thy  birth  the  cricket  chirped,  LUIGI, 
Thine  a  perpetual  voice  —  at  every  turn 
A  larum  to  the  echo.     In  a  clime 
Where  all  were  gay,  none  were  so  gay  as  thou ; 
Thou,  like  a  babe,  hushed  only  by  thy  slumbers ; 
Up  hill  and  down  hill,  morning,  noon  and  night, 
Singing  or  talking  ;  singing  to  thyself 
When  none  gave  ear,  but  to  the  listener  talking. 


ST.   MARK'S    PLACE. 

OVEK  how  many  tracts,  vast,  measureless, 

Ages  on  ages  roll,  and  none  appear 

Save  the  wild  hunter  ranging  for  his  prey ; 

While  on  this  spot  of  earth,  the  work  of  man, 

How  much  has  been  transacted  !     Emperors,  Popes, 

Warriors,  from  far  and  wide,  laden  with  spoil, 


301 


Landing,  have  here  performed  their  several  parts. 
Then  left  the  stage  to  others.     Not  a  stone 
In  the  broad  pavement,  but  to  him  who  has 
An  eye,  an  ear  for  the  inanimate  world, 
Tells  of  past  ages. 

In  that  temple-porch 

(The  brass  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains0') 
Did  BARBAROSSA  fling  his  mantle  off, 
And  kneeling,  on  his  neck  receive  the  foot 
Of  the  proud  Pontiff68  —  thus  at  last  consoled 
For  flight,  disguise,  and  many  an  aguish  shake 
On  his  stone  pillow. 

In  that  temple-porch, 

Old  as  he  was,  so  near  his  hundredth  year, 
And  blind  —  his  eyes  put  out  —  did  DANDOLO 
Stand  forth,  displaying  on  his  crown  the  cross. 
There  did  he  stand,  erect,  invincible, 
Though  wan  his  cheeks,  and  wet  with  many  tears, 
For  in  his  prayers  he  had  been  weeping  much  ; 
And  now  the  pilgrims  and  the  people  wept 
With  admiration,  saying  in  their  hearts, 
"  Surely  those  aged  limbs  have  need  of  rest !  "  69 
There  did  he  stand,  with  his  old  armor  on, 
Ere,  gonfalon  in  hand,  that  streamed  aloft, 
As  conscious  of  its  glorious  destiny, 
So  soon  to  float  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 
He  sailed  away,  five  hundred  gallant  ships, 
Their  lofty  sides  hung  with  emblazoned  shields, 
Following  his  track  to  fame.     He  went  to  die  ; 
But  of  his  trophies  four  arrived  ere  long, 
Snatched  from  destruction — the  four  steeds  divine, 
That  strike  the  ground,  resounding  with  their  feet,70 
26 


302  ITALY. 

And  from  their  nostrils  snort  ethereal  flame 

Over  that  very  porch  ;  and  in  the  place 

Where  in  an  aftertime,  beside  the  Doge, 

Sate  one  yet  greater,71  one  whose  verse  shall  live 

When  the  wave  rolls  o'er  VENICE.     High  he  sate, 

High  over  all,  close  by  the  ducal  chair, 

At  the  right  hand  of  his  illustrious  host, 

Amid  the  noblest  daughters  of  the  realm, 

Their  beauty  shaded  from  the  western  ray 

By  many-colored  hangings  ;  while,  beneath, 

Knights  of  all  nations/2  some  of  fair  renown 

From  ENGLAND,73  from  victorious  EDWARD'S  court, 

Their  lances  in  the  rest,  charged  for  the  prize. 

Here,  among  other  pageants,  and  how  oft 
It  met  the  eye,  borne  through  the  gazing  crowd, 
As  if  returning  to  console  the  least, 
Instruct  the  greatest,  did  the  Doge  go  round  ; 
Now  in  a  chair  of  state,  now  on  his  bier. 
They  were  his  first  appearance,  and  his  last. 

The  sea,  that  emblem  of  uncertainty, 
Changed  not  so  fast,  for  many  and  many  an  age, 
As  this  small  spot.     To-day  't  was  full  of  masks ; 74 
And,  lo  !  the  madness  of  the  Carnival, 
The  monk,  the  nun,  the  holy  legate  masked ! 
To-morrow  came  the  scaffold  and  the  wheel ; 
And  he  died  there  by  torch-light,  bound  and  gagged, 
Whose  name  and  crime  they  knew  not.     Underneath 
Where  the  Archangel,75  as  alighted  there, 
Blesses  the  city  from  the  topmost  tower, 
His  arms  extended  —  there,  in  monstrous  league, 
Two  phantom-shapes  were  sitting,  side  by  side, 
Or  up,  and,  as  in  sport,  chasing  each  other ; 


ST.  MARK'S  PLACE.  303 

Horror  and  Mirth.     Both  vanished  in  one  hour  ! 

But  ocean  only,  when  again  he  claims 

His  ancient  rule,  shall  wash  away  their  footsteps. 

Enter  the  palace  by  the  marble  stairs 7G 
Down  which  the  grizzly  head  of  old  FALIER 
Rolled  from  the  block.    Pass  onward  through  the  hall, 
Where,  among  those  drawn  in  their  ducal  robes, 
But  one  is  wanting  —  where,  thrown  off  in  heat, 
A  brief  inscription  on  the  Doge's  chair 
Led  to  another  on  the  wall  as  brief ; 77 
And  thou  wilt  track  them  —  wilt  from  rooms  of  state, 
Where  kings  have  feasted,  and  the  festal  song 
Rung  through  the  fretted  roof,  cedar  and  gold, 
Step  into  darkness ;  and  be  told,  "  'T  was  here, 
Trusting,  deceived,  assembled  but  to  die, 
To  take  a  long  embrace  and  part  again, 
CARRARA  78  and  his  valiant  sons  were  slain ; 
He  first  —  then  they,  whose  only  crime  had  been 
Struggling  to  save  their  father."-    -  Through  that  door, 
So  soon  to  cry,  smiting  his  brow,  "  I  am  lost !  " 
Was  with  all  courtesy,  all  honor,  shown 
The  great  and  noble  captain,  CARMAGNOLA.79— 
That  deep  descent 80  (thou  canst  not  yet  discern 
Aught  as  it  is)  leads  to  the  dripping  vaults 
Under  the  flood,  where  light  and  warmth  .were  never ! 
Leads  to  a  covered  bridge,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; 
And  to  that  fatal  closet  at  the  foot, 
Lurking  for  prey. — 

But  let  us  to  the  roof, 

And,  when  thou  hast  surveyed  the  sea,  the  land, 
Visit  the  narrow  cells  that  cluster  there, 
As  in  a  place  of  tombs.     There  burning  suns, 


SOI  ITALY. 

Day  after  day,  beat  unrelentingly ; 
Turning  all  things  to  dust,  and  scorching  up 
The  brain,  till  Reason  fled,  and  the  wild  yell 
And  wilder  laugh  burst  out  on  every  side, 
Answering  each  other  as  in  mockery  ! 

Few  houses  of  the  size  were  better  filled ; 
Though  many  came  and  left  it  in  an  hour. 
"  Most  nights,"  so  said  the  good  old  Nicolo 
(For  three-and- thirty  year's  his  uncle  kept 
The  water-gate  below,  but  seldom  spoke, 
Though  much  was  on  his  mind),  "  most  nights  arrived 
The  prison-boat,  that  boat  with  many  oars, 
And  bore  away  as  to  the  Lower  World, 
Disburdening  in  the  Canal  ORFANO,81 
That  drowning-place,  where  never  net  was  thrown, 
Summer  or  Winter,  death  the  penalty  ; 
And  where  a  secret,  once  deposited, 
Lay  till  the  waters  should  give  up  their  dead." 

Yet  what  so  gay  as  VENICE  ? 82     Every  gale 
Breathed  music  !  and  who  flocked  not,  while  she  reigned, 
To  celebrate  her  Nuptials  with  the  Sea ; 
To  wear  the  mask,  and  mingle  in  the  crowd 
With  Greek,  Armenian,  Persian  —  night  and  day 
(There,  and  there  only,  did  the  hour  stand  still) 
Pursuing  through  her  thousand  labyrinths 
The  enchantress  Pleasure  ;  realizing  dreams 
The  earliest,  happiest  —  for  a  tale  to  catch 
Credulous  ears,  and  hold  young  hearts  in  chains, 
Had  only  to  begin,  "  There  lived  in  VENICE  " 

"  Who  were  the  six  we  supped  with  yesternight?  "  ® 
"  Kings,  one  and  all !     Thou  couldst  not  but  remark 
The  style  and  manner  of  the  six  that  served  them." 


ST.  MARK'S  PLACE.  305 

"  Who  answered  me  just  now  ? 84     Who,  when  I  said, 
'  'T  is  nine,'  turned  round  and  said  so  solemnly, 
1  Signor,  he  died  at  nine'  ?  "  —  "  'T  was  the  Armenian  ; 
The  mask  that  follows  thee,  go  where  thou  wilt." 

"  But  who  moves  there,  alone  among  them  all?  "  ^ 
''  The  Cypriot.     Ministers  from  distant  courts 
Beset  his  doors,  long  ere  his  rising-hour ; 
His  the  great  secret !     Not  the  golden  house 
Of  Nero,  nor  those  fabled  in  the  East, 
Rich  though  they  were,  so  wondrous  rich  as  his  ! 
Two  dogs,  coal-black,  in  collars  of  pure  gold, 
Walk  in  his  footsteps. —  Who  but  his  familiars  ? 
They  Y/alk,  and  cast  no  shadow  in  the  sun  ! 

"  And  mark  him  speaking.     They,  that  listen,  stand 
As  if  his  tongue  dropped  honey ;  yet  his  glance 
None  can  endure  !     He  looks  nor  young  nor  old  ; 
And  at  a  tourney,  where  I  sat  and  saw, 
A  very  child  (full  threescore  years  are  gone) 
Borne  on  my  father's  shoulder  through  the  crowd, 
He  looked  riot  otherwise.     Where'er  he  stops, 
Though  short  the  sojourn,  on  his  chamber-wall, 
Mid  many  a  treasure  gleaned  from  many  a  clime, 
His  portrait  hangs  —  but  none  must  notice  it  ! 
For  TITIAN  glows  in  every  lineament, 
(Where  is  it  not  inscribed,  The  work  is  his  ?) 
And  TITIAN  died  two  hundred  years  ago." 
—  Such  their  discourse.     Assembling  in  St.  Mark's, 
All  nations  met  as  on  enchanted  ground  ! 

What  though  a  strange  mysterious  power  was  there, 
Moving  throughout,  subtle,  invisible, 
And  universal  as  the'  air  they  breathed ; 
A  power  that  never  slumbered,  nor  forgave  ? 
26* 


306  ITALY. 

All  eye,  all  ear,  nowhere  and  everywhere,86 

Entering  the  closet  and  the  sanctuary, 

No  place  of  refuge  for  the  Doge  himself; 

Most  present  when  least  thought  of S7 —  nothing  dropt 

In  secret,  when  the  heart  was  on  the  lips, 

Nothing  in  feverish  sleep,  but  instantly 

Observed  and  judged  —  a  power,  that  if  but  named 

In  casual  converse,  be  it  where  it  might, 

The  speaker  lowered  at  once  his  eyes,  his  voice, 

And  pointed  upward  as  to  God  in  heaven 

What  though  that  power  was  there,  he  who  lived  thus3 

Pursuing  Pleasure,  lived  as  if  it  were  not. 

But  let  him  in  the  midnight  air  indulge 

A  word,  a  thought  against  the  laws  of  VENICE, 

And  in  that  hour  he  vanished  from  the  earth  ! 


THE   GONDOLA. 

BOY,  call  the  Gondola ;  the  sun  is  set. — 
It  came,  and  we  embarked  ;  but  instantly, 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  magic  wand, 
Though  she  had  stept  on  board  so  light  of  foot, 
So  light  of  heart,  laughing  she  knew  not  why, 
Sleep  overcame  her  ;  on  my  arm  she  slept. 
From  time  to  time  I  waked  her ;  but  the  boat 
Rocked  her  to  sleep  again.     The  moon  was  now 
Rising  full-orbed,  but  broken  by  a  cloud. 
The  wind  was  hushed,  and  the  sea  mirror-like. 
A  single  zephyr,  as  enamored,  played 
With  her  loose  tresses,  and  dre\v  more  and  more 
Her  veil  across  her  bosom.     Long  I  lay 


THE    GONDOLA.  307 

Contemplating  that  face  so  beautiful, 
That  rosy  mouth,  that  cheek  dimpled  with  smiles. 
That  neck  but  half  concealed,  whiter  than  snow. 
'T  was  the  sweet  slumber  of  her  early  age. 
I  looked  and  looked,  and  felt  a  flush  of  joy 
I  would  express,  but  cannot.     Oft  I  wished 
Gently  —  by  stealth  —  to  drop  asleep  myself, 
And  to  incline  yet  lower  that  sleep  might  come; 
Oft  closed  my  eyes  as  in  forgetfulness. 
7T  was  all  in  vain.     Love  would  not  let  me  rest. 
But  how  delightful  when  at  length  she  waked  ! 
When,  her  light  hair  adjusting,  and  her  veil 
So  rudely  scattered,  she  resumed  her  place 
Beside  me ;  and,  as  gayly  as  before, 
Sitting  unconsciously  nearer  and  nearer, 
Poured  out  her  innocent  mind  ! 

So,  nor  long  since. 

Sung  a  Venetian ;  and  his  lay  of  love,88 
Dangerous  and  sweet,  charmed  VENICE.    For  myself 
(Less  fortunate,  if  Love  be  Happiness), 
No  curtain  drawn,  no  pulse  beating  alarm, 
I  went  alone  beneath  the  silent  moon  • 
Thy  square,  ST.  MARK,  thy  churches,  palaces, 
Glittering  and  frost-like,  and,  as  day  drew  on, 
Melting  away,  an  emblem  of  themselves. 

Those  porches  passed,  through  which  the  water-breeze 
Plays,  though  no  longer  on  the  noble  forms  ^ 
That  moved  there,  sable-vested  —  and  the  quay, 
Silent,  grass-grown  w —  adventurer-like  I  launched 
Into  the  deep,  ere  long  discovering 
Isles  such  as  cluster  in  the  Southern  seas, 
All  verdure.     Everywhere,  from  bush  and  brake, 


308  ITALY. 

The  musky  odor  of  the  serpents  came ; 
Their  slimy  track  across  the  woodman's  path 
Bright  in  the  moonshine  ;  and,  as  round  I  went, 
Dreaming  of  GREECE,  whither  the  waves  were  gliding, 
I  listened  to  the  venerable  pines 
Then  in  close  converse,  and,  if  right  I  guessed, 
Delivering  many  a  message  to  the  winds, 
In  secret,  for  their  kindred  on  Mount  IDA.'JI 

Nor  when  again  in  VENICE,  when  again 
In  that  strange  place,  so  stirring  and  so  still, 
Where  nothing  comes  to  drown  the  human  voice 
But  music,  or  the  dashing  of  the  tide, 
Ceased  I  to  wander.     Now  a  JESSICA 
Sung  to  her  lute,  her  signal  as  she  sate 
At  her  half-open  window.     Then,  methought, 
A  serenade  broke  silence,  breathing  hope 
Through  walls  of  stone,  and  torturing  the  proud  heart 
Of  some  PRIULI.     Once,  we  could  not  err 
(It  was  before  an  old  Palladian  house, 
As  between  night  and  day  we  floated  by), 
A  gondolier  lay  singing  ;  and  he  sung, 
As  in  the  time  wrhen  VENICE  was  herself, 
Of  TANCRED  and  ERMiNiA.92     On  our  oars 
We  rested ;  and  the  verse  was  verse  divine  ! 
We  could  not  err  —  perhaps  he  was  the  last  — 
For  none  took  up  the  strain,  none  answered  him ; 
And,  when  he  ceased,  he  left  upon  my  ear 
A  something  like  the  dying  voice  of  VENICE  ! 

The  moon  went  down ;  and  nothing  now  was  seen 
Save  where  the  lamp  of  a  Madonna  shone 
Faintly  —  or  heard,  but  when  he  spoke,  who  stood 
Over  the  lantern  at  the  prow  and  cried, 


THE   BRIDES   OF   VENICE.  309 

Turning  the  corner  of  some  reverend  pile, 

Some  school  or  hospital  of  old  renown, 

Though  haply  none  were  coming,  none  were  near, 

" Hasten  or  slacken."  93    But  at  length  Night  fled; 

And  with  her  fled,  scattering,  the  sons  of  Pleasure. 

Star  after  star  shot  by,  or,  meteor-like, 

Crossed  me  and  vanished  —  lost  at  once  among 

Those  hundred  isles  that  tower  majestically, 

That  rise  abruptly  from  the  water-mark, 

Not  with  rough  crag,  but  marble,  and  the  work 

Of  noblest  architects.     I  lingered  still ; 

Nor  sought  my  threshold,94  till  the  hour  was  come 

And  past,  when,  flitting  home  in  the  gray  light, 

The  young  BIANCA  found  her  father's  door,95 

That  door  so  often  with  a  trembling  hand, 

So  often  —  then  so  lately  left  ajar, 

Shut ;  and,  all  terror,  all  perplexity, 

Now  by  her  lover  urged,  now  by  her  love, 

Fled  o'er  the  waters  to  return  no  more. 


THE  BRIDES  OF  VENICE.90 

IT  was  St.  Mary's  Eve,  and  all  poured  forth 
For  some  great  festival.     The  fisher  came 
From  his  green  islet,  bringing  o'er  the  waves 
His  wife  and  little  one ;  the  husbandman 
From  the  firm  land,  with  many  a  friar  and  nun, 
And  village-maiden,  her  first  flight  from  home, 
Crowding  the  common  ferry.     All  arrived ; 
And  in  his  straw  the  prisoner  turned  to  hear, 
So  great  the  stir  in  VENICE.     Old  and  young 


310  ITALY. 

Thronged  her  three  hundred  bridges ;  the  grave  Turk, 
Turbaned,  long-vested,  and  the  cozening  Jew 
In  yellow  hat  and  threadbare  gabardine, 
Hurrying  along.     For,  as  the  custom  was, 
The  noblest  sons  and  daughters  of  the  state, 
Whose  names  are  written  in  the  Book  of  Gold, 
Were  on  that  day  to  solemnize  their  nuptials. 

At  noon  a  distant  murmur,  through  the  crowd 
Rising  and  rolling  on,  proclaimed  them  near ; 
And  never  from  their  earliest  hour  was  seen 
Such  splendor  or  such  beauty. or   Two  and  two 
(The  richest  tapestry  unrolled  before  them), 
First  came  the  brides  ;  each  in  her  virgin- veil, 
Nor  unattended  by  her  bridal  maids, 
The  two  that,  step  by  step,  behind  her  bore 
The  small  but  precious  caskets  that  contained 
The  dowry  and  the  presents.     On  she  moved 
In  the  sweet  seriousness  of  virgin-youth ; 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  holding  in  her  hand 
A  fan,  that  gently  waved,  of  ostrich-plumes. 
Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer,98 
Fell  from  beneath  a  starry  diadem  ; 
And  on  her  dazzling  neck  a  jewel  shone, 
Ruby  or  diamond  or  dark  amethyst ; 
A  jewelled  chain,  in  many  a  winding  wreath, 
Wreathing  her  gold  brocade. 

Before  the  church, 

That  venerable  structure  now  no  more  " 
On  the  sea-brink,  another  train  they  met, 
No  strangers,  nor  unlooked  for  ere  they  came, 
Brothers  to  some,  still  dearer  to  the  rest  ; 
Each  in  his  hand  bearing  his  cap  and  plume, 


THE   BRIBES    OE   VENICE.  311 

And,  as  he  walked,  with  modest  dignity 
Folding  his  scarlet  mantle.     At  the  gate 
They  join ;  and  slowly  up  the  bannered  aisle 
Led  by  the  choir,  with  due  solemnity 
Range  round  the  altar.     In  his  vestments  there 
The  Patriarch  stands ;  and,  while  the  anthem  flows. 
Who  can  look  on  unmoved  —  the  dream  of  years 
Just  now  fulfilling  !     Here  a  mother  weeps, 
Rejoicing  in  her  daughter.     There  a  son 
Blesses  the  day  that  is  to  make  her  his ; 
While  she  shines  forth  through  all  her  ornament, 
Her  beauty  heightened  by  her  hopes  and  fears. 

At  length  the  rite  is  ending.     All  fall  down, 
All  of  all  ranks  ;  and,  stretching  out  his  hands, 
Apostle-like,  the  holy  man  proceeds 
To  give  the  blessing  —  not  a  stir,  a  breath ; 
When,  hark  !  a  din  of  voices  from  without, 
And  shrieks  and  groans  and  outcries  as  in  battle  ! 
And,  lo  !  the  door  is  burst,  the  curtain  rent, 
And  armed  ruffians,  robbers  from  the  deep, 
Savage,  uncouth,  led  on  by  BARBERIGO 
And  his  six  brothers  in  their  coats  of  steel, 
Are  standing  on  the  threshold  !     Statue-like 
A  while  they  gaze  on  the  fallen  multitude, 
Each  with  his  sabre  up,  in  act  to  strike  ; 
Then,  as  at  once  recovering  from  the  spell, 
Rush  forward  to  the  altar,  and  as  soon 
Are  gone  again  —  amid  no  clash  of  arms 
Bearing  away  the  maidens  and  the  treasures. 

Where  are  they  now  ?  —  ploughing  the  distant  waves} 
Their  sails  outspread  and  given  to  the  wind, 
They  on  their  decks  triumphant.     On  they  speed. 


312  ITALY. 

Steering  for  ISTRIA  ;  their  accursed  barks 
(Well  are  they  known100  the  galliot  and  the  galley) 
Freighted,  alas  !  with  all  that  life  endears  ! 
The  richest  argosies  were  poor  to  them  ! 

Now  hadst  thou  seen  along  that  crowded  shore 
The  matrons  running  wild,  their  festal  dress 
A  strange  and  moving  contrast  to  their  grief ; 
And  through  the  city,  wander  where  thou  wouldst, 
The  men  half  armed  and  arming  —  everywhere 
As  roused  from  slumber  by  the  stirring  tramp  ; 
One  with  a  shield,  one  with  a  casque  and  spear ; 
One  with  an  axe  severing  in  two  the  chain 
Of  some  old  pinnace.     Not  a  raft,  a  plank, 
But  on  that  day  was  drifting.     In  an  hour 
Half  VENICE  was  afloat.     But  long  before, 
Frantic  with  grief  and  scorning  all  control, 
The  youths  were  gone  in  a  light  brigantine, 
Lying  at  anchor  near  the  arsenal ; 
Each  having  sworn,  and  by  the  holy  rood, 
To  slay  or  to  be  slain. 

And  from  the  tower 

The  watchman  gives  the  signal.     In  the  east 
A  ship  is  seen,  and  making  for  the  port ; 
Her  flag  St.  Mark's.     And  now  she  turns  the  point, 
Over  the  waters  like  a  sea-bird  flying ! 
Ha  !  't  is  the  same,  'tis  theirs  !  from  stern  to  prow 
Green  with  victorious  wreaths,  she  comes  to  bring 
All  that  was  lost. 

Coasting,  with  narrow  search, 
FRIULI  — -like  a  tiger  in  his  spring, 
They  had  surprised  the  corsairs  where  they  lay 101 
Sharing  the  spoil  in  blind  security 


THE   BRIDES    OF   VENICE.  313 

And  casting  lots  —  had  slain  them,  one  and  all, 

All  to  the  last,  and  flung  them  far  and  wide 

Into  the  sea,  their  proper  element  • 

Him  first,  as  first  in  rank,  whose  name  so  long 

Had  hushed  the  babes  of  VENICE,  and  who  yet, 

Breathing  a  little,  in  his  look  retained 

The  fierceness  of  his  soul.102 

Thus  were  the  brides 

Lost  and  recovered ;  and  what  now  remained 
But   to   give  thanks?     Twelve    breast-plates  and   twelve 

crowns, 

By  the  young  victors  to  their  patron-saint 
Vowed  in  the  field,  inestimable  gifts 
Flaming  with  gems  and  gold,  were  in  due  time 
Laid  at  his  feet ;  m  and  ever  to  preserve 
The  memory  of  a  day  so  full  of  change, 
From  joy  to  grief,  from  grief  to  joy  again, 
Through  many  an  age,  as  oft  as  it  came  round, 
?T  was  held  religiously.     The  Doge  resigned 
His  crimson  for  pure  ermine,  visiting 
At  earliest  dawn  St.  Mary's  silver  shrine ; 
And  through  the  city,  in  a  stately  barge 
Of  gold,  were  borne  with  songs  and  symphonies 
Twelve  ladies  young  and  noble.104     Clad  they  were 
In  bridal  white  with  bridal  ornaments, 
Each  in  her  glittering  veil ;  and  on  the  deck, 
As  on  a  burnished  throne,  they  glided  by  ; 
No  window  or  balcony  but  adorned 
With  hangings  of  rich  texture,  not  a  roof 
But  covered  with  beholders,  and  the  air 
Vocal  with  joy.     Onward  they  went,  their  oars 
Moving  in  concert  with  the  harmony, 
27 


314  ITALY. 

Through  the  Rialto 105  to  the  Ducal  Palace, 
And  at  a  banquet,  served  with  honor  there, 
Sat  representing,  in  the  eyes  of  all, 
Eyes  not  unwet,  I  ween,  with  grateful  tears, 
Their  lovely  ancestors,  the  Brides  of  VENICE. 


FOSCARI. 

LET  us  lift  up  the  curtain,  and  observe 

What  passes  in  that  chamber.     Now  a  sigh, 

And  now  a  groan  is  heard.     Then  all  is  still. 

Twenty  are  sitting  as  in  judgment  there  ;  10° 

Men  who  have  served  their  country  and  grown  gray 

In  governments  and  distant  embassies, 

Men  eminent  alike  in  war  and  peace ; 

Such  as  in  effigy  shall  long  adorn 

The  walls  of  VENICE  —  to  show  what  she  was  ! 

Their  garb  is  black,  and  black  the  arras  is, 

And  sad  the  general  aspect.     Yet  their  looks 

Are  calm,  are  cheerful ;  nothing  there  like  grief, 

Nothing  or  harsh  or  cruel.     Still  that  noise, 

That  low  and  dismal  moaning. 

Half  withdrawn, 

A  little  to  the  left,  sits  one  in  crimson, 
A  venerable  man,  fourscore  and  five. 
Cold  drops  of  sweat  stand  on  his  furrowed  brow. 
His  hands  are  clenched  ;  his  eyes  half-shut  and  glazed  j 
His  shrunk  and  withered  limbs  rigid  as  marble. 
'T  is  FOSCARI,  the  Doge.     And  there  is  one, 
A  young  man,  lying  at  his  feet,  stretched  out 
In  torture.     'T  is  his  son.     'T  is  GIACOMO, 


FOSCAEI.  315 

His  only  joy  (and  has  he  lived  for  this  ?) 
Accused  of  murder.     Yesternight  the  proofs, 
If  proofs  they  be,  were  in  the  Lion's  mouth 
Dropt  by  some  hand  unseen  ;  and  he,  himself, 
Must  sit  and  look  on  a  beloved  son 
Suffering  the  Question. 

Twice,  to  die  in  peace, 
To  save,  while  yet  he  could,  a  falling  house, 
And  turn  the  hearts  of  his  fell  adversaries, 
Those  who  had  now,  like  hell-hounds  in  full  cry, 
Chased  down  his  last  of  four,  twice  did  he  ask 
To  lay  aside  the  crown,  and  they  refused, 
An  oath  exacting,  never  more  to  ask ; 
And  there  he  sits,  a  spectacle  of  woe, 
Condemned  in  bitter  mockery  to  wear 
The  bauble  he  had  sighed  for. 

Once  again 

The  screw  is  turned  ;  and,  as  it  turns,  the  son 
Looks  up,  and.  in  a  faint  and  broken  tone, 
Murmurs  "  My  father  !  "    The  old  man  shrinks  back, 
And  in  his  mantle  muffles  up  his  face. 
"  Art  thou  not  guilty?  "  says  a  voice,  that  once 
Would  greet  the  sufferer  long  before  they  met, 
' '  Art  thou  not  guilty '} "  —  "  No  !    Indeed  I  am  not ! ' J 
But  all  is  unavailing.     In  that  court 
Groans  are  confessions  ;  patience,  fortitude, 
The  work  of  magic  ;  and,  released,  revived, 
For  condemnation,  from  his  father's  lips 
He  hears  the  sentence,  "  Banishment  to  CANDIA. 
Death,  if  he  leaves  it."     And  the  bark  sets  sail; 
And  he  is  gone  from  all  he  loves  in  life  ! 
Gone  in  the  dead  of  night  —  unseen  of  any  — 


316  ITALY. 

Without  a  word,  a  look  of  tenderness, 

To  be  called  up,  when,  in  his  lonely  hours, 

He  would  indulge  in  weeping.     Like  a  ghost, 

Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  he  haunts 

An  ancient  rampart  that  o'erhangs  the  sea ; 

Gazing  on  vacancy,  and  hourly  there 

Starting  as  from  some  wild  and  uncouth  dream, 

To  answer  to  the  watch.  —  —  Alas !  how  changed 

From  him  the  mirror  of  the  youth  of  VENICE  ; 

Whom  in  the  slightest  thing,  or  whim  or  chance, 

Did  he  but  wear  his  doublet  so  and  so, 

All  followed  ;  at  whose  nuptials,  when  he  won 

That  maid  at  once  the  noblest,  fairest,  best,107 

A  daughter  of  the  house  that  now  among 

Its  ancestors  in  monumental  brass 

Numbers  eight  Doges  —  to  convey  her  home, 

The  Bucentaur  went  forth  ;  and  thrice  the  sun 

Shone  on  the  chivalry,  that,  front  to  front, 

And  blaze  on  blaze  reflecting,  met  and  ranged 

To  tourney  in  ST.  MAKE'S.  —  But,  lo  !  at  last, 

Messengers  come.     He  is  recalled:  his  heart 

Leaps  at  the  tidings.     He  embarks :  the  boat 

Springs  to  the  oar,  and  back  again  he  goes  — 

Into  that  very  chamber !  there  to  lie 

In  his  old  resting-place,  the  bed  of  steel ; 

And  thence  look  up  (five  long,  long  years  of  grief 

Have  not  killed  either)  on  his  wretched  sire, 

Still  in  that  seat  —  as  though  he  had  not  stirred ; 

Immovable,  and  muffled  in  his  cloak. 

But  now  he  comes  convicted  of  a  crime 
Great  by  the  laws  of  VENICE.     Night  and  day, 
Brooding  on  what  he  had  been,  what  he  was, 


FOSCARI.  817 

'Twas  more  than  he  could  bear.     His  longing- fits 

Thickened  upon  him.     His  desire  for  home 

Became  a  madness  ;  and,  resolved  to  go, 

If  but  to  die.  in  his  despair  he  writes 

A  letter  to  the  sovereign-prince  of  MILAN 

(To  him  whose  name,  among  the  greatest  now,108 

Had  perished,  blotted  out  at  once  and  razed. 

But  for  the  rugged  limb  of  an  old  oak), 

Soliciting  his  influence  with  the  state, 

And  drops  it  to  be  found.  —   —  "  Would  ye  know  all  ? 

I  have  transgressed,  offended  wilfully ;  10° 

And  am  prepared  to  suffer  as  I  ought. 

But  let  me,  let  me,  if  but  for  an  hour 

(Ye  must  consent  —  for  all  of  you  are  sons, 

Most  of  you  husbands,  fathers)  —  let  me  first 

Indulge  the  natural  feelings  of  a  man, 

And,  ere  I  die,  if  such  my  sentence  be, 

Press  to  my  heart  ('tis  all  I  ask  of  you) 

My  wife,  my  children  —  and  my  aged  mother  — 

Say,  is  she  yet  alive  ?-  " 

He  is  condemned 

To  go  ere  set  of  sun,  go  whence  he  came, 
A  banished  man  ;  and  for  a  year  to  breathe 
The  vapor  of  a  dungeon.     But  his  prayer 
(What  could  they  less  ?)  is  granted. 

In  a  hall 

Open  and  crowded  by  the  common  herd, 
'T  was  there  a  wife  and  her  four  sons  yet  young, 
A  mother  borne  along,  life  ebbing  fast, 
And  an  old  Doge,  mustering  his  strength  in  vain, 
Assembled  now,  sad  privilege  !  to  meet 
One  so  long  lost,  one  who  for  them  had  braved, 
27* 


318  ITALY. 

For  them  had  sought — death  and  yet  worse  than  death f 

To  meet  him,  and  to  part  with  him  forever  !  — 

Time  and  their  wrongs  had  changed  them  all  —  him  most ! 

Yet  when  the  wife,  the  mother,  looked  again, 

'T  was  he  —  't  was  he  himself —  't  was  GIACOMO  ! 

And  all  clung  round  him,  weeping  bitterly ; 

Weeping  the  more,  because  they  wept  in  vain. 

Unnerved,  and  now  unsettled  in  his  mind 
From  long  and  exquisite  pain,  he  sobs  and  cries, 
Kissing  the  old  man's  cheek,  "Help  me,  my  father  ! 
Let  me,  I  pray  thee,  live  once  more  among  ye  : 
Let  me  go  home."      —  "  My  son,"  returns  the  Doge, 
"  Obey.     Thy  country  wills  it."  no 

GIACOMO 

That  night  embarked  ;  sent  to  an  early  grave 
For  one  whose  dying  words,   "  The  deed  was  mine  ! 
He  is  most  innocent !     'T  was  I  who  did  it !  " 
Came  when  he  slept  in  peace.     The  ship,  that  sailed 
Swift  as  the  winds  with  his  deliverance, 
Bore  back  a  lifeless  corse.     Generous  as  brave, 
Affection,  kindness,  the  sweet  offices 
Of  duty  and  love  were  from  his  tenderest  years 
To  him  as  needful  as  his  daily  bread  ; 
And  to  become  a  by-word  in  the  streets, 
Bringing  a  stain  on  those  who  gave  him  life, 
And  those,  alas  !  now  worse  than  fatherless  — 
To  be  proclaimed  a  ruffian,  a  night-stabber, 
He  on  whom  none  before  had  breathed  reproach  — 
He  lived  but  to  disprove  it.     That  hope  lost, 
Death  followed.     0  !  if  justice  be  in  heaven, 
A  day  must  come  of  ample  retribution  ! 

Then  was  thy  cup,  old  man,  full  to  the  brim. 


FOSCARI.  319 

But  thou  wert  yet  alive ;  and  there  was  one, 

The  soul  and  spring  of  all  that  enmity, 

Who  would  not  leave  thee  ;  fastening  on  thy  flank, 

Hungering  and  thirsting,  still  unsatisfied  • 

One  of  a  name  illustrious  as  thine  own ! 

One  of  the  Ten  !  one  of  the  Invisible  Three  !  m 

'T  was  LOREDANO.     "When  the  whelps  were  gone, 

He  would  dislodge  the  lion  from  his  den ; 

And,  leading  on  the  pack  he  long  had  led, 

The  miserable  pack  that  ever  howled 

Against  fallen  greatness,  saoved  that  FOSCARI 

Be  Doge  no  longer  ;  urging  his  great  age  ; 

Calling  the  loneliness  of  grief  neglect 

Of  duty,  sullenness  against  the  laws. 

"  I  am  most  willing  to  retire,"  said  he  : 

"  But  I  have  sworn,  and  cannot  of  myself. 
Do  with  me  as  ye  please."-    — He  was  deposed, 
He,  who  had  reigned  so  long  and  gloriously ; 
His  ducal  bonnet  taken  from  his  brow, 
His  robes  stript  off,  his  seal  and  signet-ring 
Broken  before  him.     But  now  nothing  moved 
The  meekness  of  his  souL     All  things  alike  ! 
Among  the  six  that  came  with  the  decree, 
FOSCARI  saw  one  he  knew  not,  and  inquired 
His  name.     "  I  am  the  son  of  MARCO  MEMMO." 
"  Ah  !  "  he  replied,  "  thy  father  was  my  friend." 

And  now  he  goes.     "  It  is  the  hour  and  past. 
I  have  no  business  here."      —  "  But  wilt  thou  not 
Avoid  the  gazing  crowd  ?     That  way  is  private." 
"  No !  as  I  entered,  so  will  I  retire." 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff,  he  left  the  house, 
His  residence  for  five-and-thirty  years, 


320  ITALY. 

By  the  same  stairs  up  which  he  came  in  state  • 
Those  where  the  giants  stand,  guarding  the  ascent, 
Monstrous,  terrific.     At  the  foot  he  stopt, 
And,  on  his  staff  still  leaning,  turned  and  said, 
"  By  mine  own  merits  did  I  come.     I  go, 
Driven  by  the  malice  of  mine  enemies." 
Then  to  his  boat  withdrew,  poor  as  he  came, 
Amid  the  sighs  of  them  that  dared  not  speak. 

This  journey  was  his  last.     When  the  bell  rang 
At  dawn,  announcing  a  new  Doge  to  VENICE, 
It  found  him  on  his  knees  before  the  cross, 
Clasping  his  aged  hands  in  earnest  prayer ; 
And  there  he  died.     Ere  half  its  task  was  done, 
It  rang  his  knell. 

But  whence  the  deadly  hate 
That  caused  all  this  —  the  hate  of  LOREDANO  ? 
It  was  a  legacy  his  father  left, 
Who,  but  for  FOSCARI,  had  reigned  in  Venice, 
And,  like  the  venom  in  the  serpent's  bag, 
Gathered  and  grew  !     Nothing  but  turned  to  hate  ! 112 
In  vain  did  FOSCARI  supplicate  for  peace, 
Offering  in  marriage  his  fair  ISABEL. 
He  changed  not,  with  a  dreadful  piety 
Studying  revenge  ;  listening  to  those  alone 
Who  talked  of  vengeance  ;   grasping  by  the  hand 
Those  in  their  zeal  (and  none  wTere  wanting  there) 
Who  came  to  tell  him  of  another  wrong, 
Done  or  imagined.     When  his  father  died, 
They  whispered,   "  'T  was  by  poison  !  "  and  the  words 
Struck  him  as  uttered  from  his  father's  grave. 
He  wrote  it  on  the  tomb  113  ('t  is  there  in  marble), 
And  with  a  brow  of  care,  most  merchant-like, 


MARCOLINI.  321 

Among  the  debtors  in  his  leger-book  m 
Entered  at  full  (nor  month  nor  day  forgot) 
"  FRANCESCO  FOSCARI —  for  my  father's  death." 
Leaving  a  blank  —  to  be  filled  up  hereafter. 
When  FOSCARI' s  noble  heart  at  length  gave  way, 
He  took  the  volume  from  the  shelf  again 
Calmly,  and  with  his  pen  filled  up  the  blank, 
Inscribing,  "He  has  paid  me." 

Ye  who  sit 

Brooding  from  day  to  day,  from  day  to  day 
Chewing  the  bitter  cud,  and  starting  up 
As  though  the  hour  was  come  to  whet  your  fangs, 
And,  like  the  Pisan,115  gnaw  the  hairy  scalp 
Of  him  who  had  offended  —  if  ye  must, 
Sit  and  brood  on ;  but,  0  !  forbear  to  teach 
The  lesson  to  your  children. 


MARCOLINI. 

IT  was  midnight ;  the  great  clock  had  struck  and  was 
still  echoing  through  every  porch  and  gallery  in  the  quarter 
of  ST.  MARK,  when  a  young  citizen,  wrapped  in  his  cloak, 
was  hastening  home  under  it  from  an  interview  with  his 
mistress.  His  step  was  light,  for  his  heart  was  so.  Her 
parents  had  just  consented  to  their  marriage ;  and  the  very 
day  was  named.  "  Lovely  GIULIETTA  ! "  he  cried.  "  And 
shall  I  then  call  thee  mine  at  last  ?  Who  was  ever  so  blest 
as  thy  MARCOLINI?"  But,  as  he  spoke,  he  stopped ;  for 
something  glittered  on  the  pavement  before  him.  It  was  a 
scabbard  of  rich  workmanship  j  and  the  discovery,  what  was 
it  but  an  earnest  of  good  fortune?  "Rest  thou  there!" 


322  ITALY. 

he  cried,  thrusting  it  gayly  into  his  belt.  Ci  If  another 
claims  thee  not,  thou  hast  changed  masters!"  And  on  he 
went  as  before,  humming  the  burden  of  a  song  which  he 
and  his  GIULIETTA  had  been  singing  together.  But  how 
little  do  we  know  what  the  next  minute  will  bring  forth  ! 
He  turned  by  the  Church  of  ST.  GEMINIANO,  ^and  in  three 
steps  he  met  the  watch.  A  murder  had  just  been  commit 
ted.  The  senator  RENALDI  had  been  found  dead  at  his 
door,  the  dagger  left  in  his  heart ;  and  the  unfortunate 
MARCOLLNI  was  dragged  away  for  examination.  The  place, 
the  time,  everything  served  to  excite,  to  justify  suspicion ; 
and  no  sooner  had  he  entered  the  guard-house  than  a  dam 
ning  witness  appeared  against  him.  The  bravo  in  his  flight 
had  thrown  away  his  scabbard ;  and,  smeared  with  blood, 
with  blood  not  yet  dry,  it  was  now  in  the  belt  of  MARCC- 
LINI.  Its  patrician  ornaments  struck  every  eye ;  and, 
when  the  fatal  dagger  was  produced  and  compared  with  it, 
not  a  doubt  of  his  guilt  remained.  Still  there  is  in  the 
innocent  an  energy  and  a  composure,  an  energy  when  they 
speak  and  a  composure  when  they  are  silent,  to  which  none 
can  be  altogether  insensible ;  and  the  judge  delayed  for 
some  time  to  pronounce  the  sentence,  though  he  was  a  near 
relation  of  the  dead.  At  length,  however,  it  came;  and 
MARCOLINI  lost  his  life,  GIULIETTA  her  reason. 

Not  many  years  afterwards  the  truth  revealed  itself,  the 
real  criminal  in  his  last  moments  confessing  the  crime :  and 
hence  the  custom  in  VENICE,  a  custom  that  long  prevailed, 
for  a  crier  to  cry  out  in  the  court  before  a  sentence  was 
passed,  c:  Ricordatevi  del  povero  MARCOLINI  !  "11G 

Great,  indeed,  was  the  lamentation  throughout  the  city, 
and  the  judge,  dying,  directed  that  thenceforth  and  forever 
a  mass  should  be  sung  every  night  in  a  chapel  of  the  ducal 


ARQUA.  323 

church  for  his  own  soul,  and  the  soul  of  MARCOLINI,  and 
the  souls  of  all  who  had  suffered  by  an  unjust  judgment. 
Some  land  on  the  BRENTA  was  left  by  him  for  the  purpose : 
and  still  is  the  mass  sung  in  the  chapel ;  still  every  night, 
when  the  great  square  is  illuminating  and  the  casinos  are 
filling  fast  with  the  gay  and  the  dissipated,  a  bell  is  rung 
as  for  a  service,  and  a  ray  of  light  seen  to  issue  from  a 
small  Gothic  window  that  looks  toward  the  place  of  execu 
tion, —  the  place  where,  on  a  scaffold,  MARCOLINI  breathed 
his  last. 


ARQUl. 

THREE  leagues  from  PADUA  stands  and  long  has  stood 

(The  Paduan  student  knows  it,  honors- it) 

A  lonely  tomb  beside  a  mountain-church  ; 

And  I  arrived  there  as  the  sun  declined 

Low  in  the  west.     The  gentle  airs,  that  breathe 

Fragrance  at  eve,  were  rising,  and  the  birds 

Singing  their  farewell-song  —  the  very  song 

They  sung  the  night  that  tomb  received  a  tenant ; 

When,  as  alive,  clothed  in  his  canon's  stole, 

And  slowly  winding  down  the  narrow  path, 

He  came  to  rest  there.     Nobles  of  the  land, 

Princes  and  prelates,  mingled  in  his  train, 

Anxious  by  any  act,  while  yet  they  could, 

To  catch  a  ray  of  glory  by  reflection ; 

And  from  that  hour  have  kindred  spirits  flocked 117 

From  distant  countries,  from  the  north,  the  south, 

To  see  where  he  is  laid. 

Twelve  years  ago, 
When  I  descended  the  impetuous  RHONE, 


324  ITALY. 

Its  vineyards  of  such  great  and  old  renown,118 
Its  castles,  each  with  some  romantic  tale. 
Vanishing  fast  —  the  pilot  at  the  stern, 
He  who  had  steered  so  long,  standing  aloft, 
His  eyes  on  the  white  breakers,  and  his  hands 
On  what  was  now  his  rudder,  now  his  oar, 
A  huge  misshapen  plank  —  the  bark  itself 
Frail  and  uncouth,  launched  to  return  no  more, 
Such  as  a  shipwrecked  man  might  hope  to  build,119 
Urged  by  the  love  of  home.  — Twelve  years  ago. 
When  like  an  arrow  from  the  cord  we  flew, 
Two  long,  long  days,  silence,  suspense  on  board, 
It  was  to  offer  at  thy  fount,  YAUCLUSE, 
Entering  the  arched  cave,  to  wander  where 
PETRARCH  had  wandered,  to  explore  and  sit 
Where  in  his  peasant-dress  he  loved  to  sit, 
Musing,  reciting  —  on  some  rock  moss-grown, 
Or  the  fantastic  root  of  some  old  beech, 
That  drinks  the  living  waters  as  they  stream 
Over  their  emerald-bed  ;  and  could  I  now 
Neglect  the  place  where,  in  a  graver  mood,1120 
When  be  had  done  and  settled  with  the  world, 
When  all  the  illusions  of  his  youth  were  fled, 
Indulged  perhaps  too  much,  cherished  too  long, 
He  came  for  the  conclusion  ?     Half-way  up 
He  built  his  house,121  whence  as  by  stealth  he  caught, 
Among  the  hills,  a  glimpse  of  busy  life 
That  soothed,  not  stirred.  —  But  knock,  and  enter  in. 
This  was  his  chamber.     'T  is  as  when  he  went ; 
As  if  he  now  were  in  his  orchard-grove. 
And  this  his  closet.     Here  he  sat  and  read. 
This  was  his  chair;  and  in  it,  unobserved. 


GJNEVRA.  325 

Reading,  or  thinking  of  his  absent  friends, 
He  passed  away  as  in  a  quiet  slumber. 

Peace  to  this  region  !     Peace  to  each,  to  all ! 
They  know  his  value  —  every  coming  step, 
That  draws  the  gazing  children  from  their  play, 
Would  tell  them,  if  they  knew  not. — But  could  aught 
Ungentle  or  ungenerous  spring  up 
Where  he  is  sleeping ;  where,  and  in  an  age 
Of  savage  warfare  and  blind  bigotry, 
He  cultured  all  that  could  refine,  exalt ;  m 
Leading  to  better  things  ? 


GINEVRA. 

IF  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or  chance 
To  MOD  EN  A,123  where  still  religiously 
Among  her  ancient  trophies  is  preserved 
BOLOGNA'S  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs124 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandine), 
Stop  at  a  palace  near  the  Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  ORSINI. 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  thee ;  through  their  arched  walks, 
Dim  at  noon-day,  discovering  many  a  glimpse 
Of  knights  and  dames  such  as  in  old  romance, 
And  lovers  such  as  in  heroic  song, — 
Perhaps  the  two,  for  groves  were  their  delight, 
That  in  the  spring-time,  as  alone  they  sate, 
Venturing  together  on  a  tale  of  love, 

Read  only  part  that  day.125 A  summer-sun 

28 


326  ITALY. 

Sets  ere  one-half  is  seen  ;  but,  ere  thou  go, 
Enter  the  house  —  prithee,  forget  it  not  — 
And  look  a  while  upon  a  picture  there. 

'T  is  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth,126 
The  very  last  of  that  illustrious  race, 
Done  by  ZAMPIERI  127  — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half-open,  and  her  finger  up, 
As  though  she  said  "  Beware  !  "  her  vest  of  gold 
Broidered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to  foot, 
An  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp  ; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls.     But  then  her  face, 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart  — 
It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Alone  it  hangs 

Over  a  mouldering  heirloom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken-chest,  half-eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  ANTONY  of  Trent 
With  scripture-stories  from  the  life  of  Christ ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  VENICE,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestor. 
That  by  the  way  —  it  may  be  true  or  false  — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture ;  and  thou  wilt  not, 
When  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child :  from  infancy 
The  joy,  the  pride,  of  an  indulgent  sire. 


GINEVRA.  327 

Her  mother  dying  of  the  gift  she  gave, 

That  precious  gift,  what  else  remained  to  him  ? 

The  young  GINEVRA  was  his  all  in  life, 

Still  as  she  grew,  forever  in  his  sight  ; 

And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 

Marrying  an  only  son,  FRANCESCO  DORIA, 

Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gayety, 
Her  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour ; 
Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum  ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  FRANCESCO. 

Great  was  the  joy ;  but  at  the  bridal  feast, 
When  all  sate  down,  the  bride  was  wanting  there. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  father  cried, 
"  'T  is  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love  ! " 
And  filled  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  FRANCESCO, 
Laughing  and  looking  back  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory-tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger 
But  now,  alas  !  she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guessed 
But  that  she  was  not !  —  Weary  of  his  life, 
FRANCESCO  flew  to  VENICE,  and  forthwith 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
ORSINI  lived  ;  and  long  was  to  be  seen 
An  old  man  wandering128  as  in  quest  of  something, 
Something  he  could  not  find  —  he  knew  not  what. 


328  ITALY. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  a  while 
Silent  and  tenantless  —  then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgot, 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery, 
That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed  ;  and  'twas  said 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  GIKEVRA, 
"  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place  ?" 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said  ;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell :  and,  lo  !  a  skeleton, 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald-stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 
All  else  had  perished  —  save  a  nuptial  ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"  GINEVRA."-     —There,  then,  had  she  found  a  grave  ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy  ; 
When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  forever  ! 


BOLOGNA. 

'T  WAS  night ;  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  day 
Were  o'er.     The  mountebank  no  longer  wrought 
Miraculous  cures  —  he  and  his  stage  were  gone  ; 
And  he  who,  when  the  crisis  of  his  tale 
Came,  and  all  stood  breathless  with  hope  and  fear, 
Sent  round  his  cap  ;  and  he  who  thrummed  his  wire 
And  sang,  with  pleading  look  and  plaintive  strain, 
Melting  the  passenger.     Thy  thousand  cries,1 '' 


BOLOGNA.  329 

So  well  portrayed,  and  by  a  son  of  thine, 

Whose  voice  had  swelled  the  hubbub  in  his  youth, 

Were  hushed,  BOLOGNA,  silence  in  the  streets, 

The  squares,  when,  hark !  the  clattering  of  fleet  hoofs  ; 

And  soon  a  courier,  posting  as  from  far, 

Housing  and  holster,  boot  and  belted  coat 

And  doublet,  stained  with  many  a  various  soil, 

Stopt  and  alighted.     'T  was  where  hangs  aloft 

That  ancient  sign,  the  pilgrim,  welcoming 

All  who  arrive  there,  all  perhaps  save  those 

Clad  like  himself,  with  staff  and  scallop-shell, 

Those  on  a  pilgrimage.     And  now  approached 

Wheels,  through  the  lofty  porticos  resounding, 

Arch  beyond  arch,  a  shelter  or  a  shade 

As  the  sky  changes.     To  the  gate  they  came ; 

And,  ere  the  man  had  half  his  story  done, 

Mine  host  received  the  master  —  one  long  used 

To  sojourn  among  strangers,  everywhere 

(Go  w^here  he  would,  along  the  wildest  track) 

Flinging  a  charm  that  shall  not  soon  be  lost, 

And  leaving  footsteps  to  be  traced  by  those 

Who  love  the  haunts  of  genius  ;  one  who  saw, 

Observed,  nor  shunned  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 

But  mingled  not,  and  'mid  the  din,  the  stir, 

Lived  as  a  separate  spirit. 

Much  had  passed 

Since  last  we  parted  •  and  those  five  short  years  — 
Much  had  they  told  !  His  clustering  locks  were  turned 
Gray  ;  nor  did  aught  recall  the  youth  that  swam 
From  SESTOS  to  ABYDOS.     Yet  his  voice, 
Still  it  was  sweet ;  still  from  his  eye  the  thought 
Flashed  lightning-like,  nor  lingered  on  the  way, 
28* 


330  ITALY. 

Waiting  for  words.     Far,  far  into  the  night 
We  sat,  conversing  —  no  unwelcome  hour, 
The  hour  we  met ;  and  when  Aurora  rose, 
Rising,  we  climbed  the  rugged  Apennine. 

Well  I  remember  how  the  golden  sun 
Filled  with  its  beams  the  unfathomable  gulfs, 
As  on  we  travelled,  and  along  the  ridge, 
'Mid  groves  of  cork  and  cistus  and  wild-fig, 
His  motley  household  came.  —  Not  last  nor  least, 
BATTISTA,  who,  upon  the  moonlight-sea 
Of  VENICE,  had  so  ably,  zealously, 
Served,  and,  at  parting,  thrown  his  oar  away 
To  follow  through  the  world  ;  who  without  stain 
Had  worn  so  long  that  honorable  badge, 
The  gondolier's,  in  a  patrician  house 
Arguing  unlimited  trust.130  —  Not  last  nor  least, 
Thou,  though  declining  in  thy  beauty  and  strength, 
Faithful  MORETTO,  to  the  latest  hour 
Guarding  his  chamber-door,  and  now  along 
The  silent,  sullen  strand  of  Miss  OL  ON  GUI 
Howling  in  grief.  —  He  had  just  left  that  place 
Of  old  renown,  once  in  the  ADRIAN  sea,131 
RAVENNA  !  where  from  DANTE'S  sacred  tomb 
He  had  so  oft,  as  many  a  verse  declares,133 
Drawn  inspiration  ;  where,  at  twilight-time, 
Through  the  pine-forest  wandering  with  loose  rein, 
Wandering  and  lost,  he  had  so  oft  beheld 
(What  is  not  visible  to  a  poet's  eye  ?) 
The  spectre-knight,  the  hell-hounds  and  their  prey, 
The  chase,  the  slaughter,  and  the  festal  mirth 
Suddenly  blasted.133    'T  was  a  theme  he  loved, 
But  others  claimed  their  turn;  and  many  a  tower,134 


BOLOGNA.  331 

Shattered,  uprooted  from  its  native  rock, 
Its  strength  the  pride  of  some  heroic  age, 
Appeared  and  vanished  (many  a  sturdy  steer 135 
Yoked  and  unyoked)  while  as  in  happier  days 
He  poured  his  spirit  forth.     The  past  forgot, 
All  was  enjoyment.     Not  a  cloud  obscured 
Present  or  future. 

He  is  now  at  rest ; 

And  praise  and  blame  fall  on  his  ear  alike, 
Now  dull  in  death.     Yes,  BYRON,  thou  art  gone, 
Gone  like  a  star  that  through  the  firmament 
Shot  and  was  lost,  in  its  eccentric  course 
Dazzling,  perplexing.     Yet  thy  heart,  methinks, 
Was  generous,  noble  —  noble  in  its  scorn 
Of  all  things  Jow  or  little  ;  nothing  there 
Sordid  or  servile.     If  imagined  wrongs 
Pursued  thee,  urging  thee  sometimes  to  do 
Things  long  regretted,  oft,  as  many  know, 
None  more  than  I,  thy  gratitude  would  build 
On  slight  foundations  :  arid,  if  in  thy  life 
Not  happy,  in  thy  death  thou  surely  wert, 
Thy  wish  accomplished  ;  dying  in  the  land 
Where  thy  young  mind  had  caught  ethereal  fire  — 
Dying  in  GREECE,  and  in  a  cause  so  glorious  ! 

They  in  thy  train  —  ah  !  little  did  they  think, 
As  round  we  went,  that  they  so  soon  should  sit 
Mourning  beside  thee,  while  a  nation  mourned, 
Changing  her  festal  for  her  funeral  song  ; 
That  they  so  soon  should  hear  the  minute-gun, 
As  morning  gleamed  on  what  remained  of  thee, 
Roll  o'er  the  sea,  the  mountains,  numbering 
Thy  years  of  joy  and  sorrow. 


332  ITALY. 

Thou  art  gone ; 

And  he  who  would  assail  thee  in  thy  grave, 
0,  let  him  pause  !     For  who  among  us  all, 
Tried  as  thou  wert  —  even  from  thine  earliest  years, 
When  wandering,  yet  unspoilt,  a  highland-boy  — 
Tried  as  thou  wert,  and  with  thy  soul  of  flame  ; 
Pleasure,  while  yet  the  down  was  on  thy  cheek, 
Uplifting,  pressing,  and  to  lips  like  thine, 
Her  charmed  cup  —  ah  !  who  among  us  all 
Could  say  he  had  not  erred  as  much,  and  more  ? 


isa 


FLORENCE. 

OF  all  the  fairest  cities  of  the  earth, 
None  is  so  fair  as  FLORENCE.     7T  is  a  gem 
Of  purest  ray ;  and  what  a  light  broke  forth,1 
When  it  emerged  from  darkness  !     Search  within, 
Without ;  all  is  enchantment !     ;T  is  the  Past 
Contending  with  the  Present :  and  in  turn 
Each  has  the  mastery. 

In  this  chapel  wrought w 
One  of  the  few,  Nature's  interpreters, 
The  few,  whom  genius  gives  as  lights  to  shine, 
MASACCIO  ;  and  he  slumbers  underneath. 
Wouldst  thou  behold  his  monument  ?     Look  round  ! 
And  know  that  where  we  stand  stood  oft  and  long, 
Oft  till  the  day  was  gone,  RAPHAEL  himself; 
Nor  he  alone,  so  great  the  ardor  there, 
Such,  while  it  reigned,  the  generous  rivalry  ; 
He  and  how  many  as  at  once  called  forth, 
Anxious  to  learn  of  those  who  came  before,     • 


FLORENCE.  '  333 

To  steal  a  spark  from  their  authentic  fire, 
Theirs  who  first  broke  the  universal  gloom, 
Sons  of  the  Morning. 

On  that  ancient  seat, 

The  seat  of  stone  that  runs  along  the  wall,138 
South  of  the  church,  east  of  the  belfry- tower 189 
(Thou  canst  not  miss  it),  in  the  sultry  time 
Would  DANTE  sit  conversing,  and  with  those 
Who  little  thought  that  in  his  hand  he  held 
The  balance,  and  assigned  at  his  good  pleasure 
To  each  his  place  in  the  invisible  world, 
To  some  an  upper  region,  some  a  lower ; 
Many  a  transgressor  sent  to  his  account,140 
Long  ere  in  FLORENCE  numbered  with  the  dead; 
The  body  still  as  full  of  life  and  stir 
At  home,  abroad ;  still  and  as  oft  inclined 
To  eat,  drink,  sleep ;  still  clad  as  others  were, 
And  at  noon-day,  where  men  were  wont  to  meet, 
Met  as  continually ;  when  the  soul  went, 
Relinquished  to  a  demon,  and  by  him 
(So  says  the  bard,  and  who  can  read  and  doubt  ?) 
Dwelt  in  and  governed. 

Sit  thee  down  a  while ; 141 
Then,  by  the  gates  so  marvellously  wrought, 
That  they  might  serve  to  be  the  gates  of  Heaven,342 
Enter  the  Baptistery.     That  place  he  loved, 
Loved  as  his  own ; 143  and  in  his  visits  there 
Well  might  he  take  delight !    For  when  a  child, 
Playing,  as  many  are  wont,  with  venturous  feet 
Near  and  yet  nearer  to  the  sacred  font, 
Slipped  and  fell  in,  he  flew  and  rescued  him, 
Flew  with  an  energy,  a  violence, 


ITALY. 

That  broke  the  marble  —  a  mishap  ascribed 
To  evil  motives ;  his,  alas  !  to  lead 
A  life  of  trouble,144  and  ere  long  to  leave 
All  things  most  dear  to  him,  ere  long  to  know 
How  salt  another's  bread  is.  and  the  toil 
Of  going  up  and  down  another's  stairs.345 

Nor  then  forget  that  chamber  of  the  dead,140 
Where  the  gigantic  shapes  of  Night  and  Day, 
Turned  into  stone,  rest  everlastingly ; 
Yet  still  are  breathing,  and  shed  round  at  noon 
A  two-fold  influence  —  only  to  be  felt  — 
A  light,  a  darkness,  mingling  each  with  each  ; 
Both  and  yet  neither.     There,  from  age  to  age, 
Two  ghosts  are  sitting  on  their  sepulchres. 
That  is  the  Duke  LORENZO.    Mark  him  well.147 
He  meditates,  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
What  from  beneath  his  helm-like  bonnet  scowls  ? 
Is  it  a  face,  or  but  an  eyeless  skull  ? 
'T  is  lost  in  shade ;  yet,  like  the  basilisk, 
It  fascinates,  and  is  intolerable. 
His  mien  is  noble,  most  majestical ! 
Then  most  so,  when  the  distant  choir  is  heard 
At  morn  or  eve  —  nor  fail  thou  to  attend 
On  that  thrice-hallowed  day,  when  all  are  there ; 
When  all,  propitiating  with  solemn  songs, 
Visit  the  dead.     Then  wilt  thou  feel  his  power  ! 

But  let  not  Sculpture,  Painting,  Poesy, 
Or  they,  the  masters  of  these  mighty  spells, 
Detain  us.     Our  first  homage  is  to  Virtue. 
Where,  in  what  dungeon  of  the  citadel 
(It  must  be  known  —  the  writing  on  the  wall 149 
Cannot  be  gone  —  't  was  with  the  blade  cut  in, 


DON   GARZlA.  335 

Ere,  on  his  knees  to  God,  he  slew  himself), 
Did  he,  the  last,  the  noblest  citizen,150 
Breathe  out  his  soul,  lest  in  the  torturing  hour 
He  might  accuse  the  guiltless  ? 

That  debt  paid, 

But  with  a  sigh,  a  tear  for  human  frailty, 
We  may  return,  and  once  more  give  a  loose 
To  the  delighted  spirit  —  worshipping, 
In  her  small  temple  of  rich  workmanship,151 
VENUS  herself,  who,  when  she  left  the  skies, 
Came  hither. 


DON  GARZIA. 

AMONG  those  awful  forms,  in  elder  time 

Assembled,  and  through  many  an  after-age 

Destined  to  stand  as  Genii  of  the  place 

Where  men  most  meet  in  FLORENCE,  may  be  seen 

His  who  first  played  the  tyrant.     Clad  in  mail, 

But  with  his  helmet  off — in  kingly  state, 

Aloft  he  sits  upon  his  horse  of  brass  ; lr'2 

And  they,  that  read  the  legend  underneath, 

Go  and  pronounce  him  happy.     Yet,  methinks, 

There  is  a  chamber  that,  if  walls  could  speak, 

Would  turn  their  admiration  into  pity. 

Half  of  what  passed  died  with  him ;  but  the  rest, 

All  he  discovered  when  the  fit  was  on, 

All  that,  by  those  who  listened,  could  be  gleaned 

From  broken  sentences  and  starts  in  sleep, 

Is  told,  and  by  an  honest  chronicler.155 

Two  of  his  sons,  GIOVANNI  and  GARZIA 


336  ITALY. 

(The  eldest  had  not  seen  his  nineteenth  summer), 

Went  to  the  chase ;  but  only  one  returned. 

GIOVANNI,  when  the  huntsman  blew  his  horn 

O'er  the  last  stag  that  started  from  the  brake. 

And  in  the  heather  turned  to  stand  at  bay, 

Appeared  not ;  and  at  close  of  day  was  found 

Bathed  in  his  innocent  blood.     Too  well,  alas  ! 

The  trembling  COSMO  guessed  the  deed,  the  doer ; 

And,  having  caused  the  body  to  be  borne 

In  secret  to  that  chamber  —  at  an  hour 

When  all  slept  sound,  save  she  who  bore  them  both,154 

Who  little  thought  of  what  was  yet  to  corne, 

And  lived  but  to  be  told — he  bade  GAKZIA 

Arise  and  follow  him.     Holding  in  one  hand 

A  winking  lamp,  and  in  the  other  a  key 

Massive  and  dungeon-like,  thither  he  led ; 

And,  having  entered  in  and  locked  the  door, 

The  father  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  son, 

And  closely  questioned  him.     No  change  betrayed 

Or  guilt  or  fear.     Then  COSMO  lifted  up 

The  bloody  sheet.  "Look  there !  Look  there  ! "  he  cried. 

"  Blood  calls  for  blood  —  and  from  a  father's  hand  ! 

—  Unless  thyself  wilt  save  him  that  sad  office. 

What !  "  he  exclaimed,  when,  shuddering  at  the  sight, 

The  boy  breathed  out,  "  I  stood  but  on  my  guard  !  " 

"  Dar'st  thou  then  blacken  one  who  never  wronged  thee, 

Who  would  not  set  his  foot  upon  a  worm  ? 

Yes,  thou  must  die,  lest  others  fall  by  thee, 

And  thou  shouldst  be  the  slayer  of  us  all." 

Then  from  GARZIA'S  belt  he  drew  the  blade, 

That  fatal  one  which  spilt  his  brother's  blood  ; 

And,  kneeling  on  the  ground,  "Great  God  !"  he  cried, 


DON  GARZIA.  337 

"  Grant  me  the  strength  to  do  an  act  of  justice. 
Thou  knowest  what  it  costs  me ;  but,  alas  ! 
How  can  I  spare  myself,  sparing  none  else  ? 
Grant  me  the  strength,  the  will  —  and,  0  !  forgive 
The  sinful  soul  of  a  most  wretched  son ! 
'T  is  a  most  wretched  father  who  implores  it." 
Long  on  GARZIA'S  neck  he  hung  and  wept, 
Long  pressed  him  to  his  bosom  tenderly ; 
And  then,  but  while  he  held  him  by  the  arm, 
Thrusting  him  backward,  turned  away  his  face, 
And  stabbed  him  to  the  heart. 

Well  might  a  youth,155 

Studious  of  men.  anxious  to  learn  and  know, 
When  in  the  train  of  some  great  embassy 
He  came,  a  visitant,  to  COSMO'S  court, 
Think  on  the  past ;  and,  as  he  wandered  through 
The  ample  spaces  of  an  ancient  house,156 
Silent,  deserted  —  stop  a  while  to  dwell 
Upon  two  portraits  there,  drawn  on  the  wall*57 
Together,  as  of  two  in  bonds  of  love, 
Those  of  the  unhappy  brothers,  and  conclude, 
From  the  sad  looks  of  him  who  could  have  told, 
The  terrible  truth.138 —  Well  might  he  heave  a  sigh 
For  poor  humanity,  when  he  beheld 
That  very  COSMO  shaking  o'er  his  fire, 
Drowsy  and  deaf  and  inarticulate, 
Wrapt  in  his  night-gown,  o'er  a  sick  man's  mess, 
In  the  last  stage  —  death-struck  and  deadly  pale  ; 
His  wife,  another,  not  his  ELEANOR, 
At  once  his  nurse  and  his  interpreter. 
29 


838  ITALY. 


THE  CAMPAGNA   OF  FLORENCE. 

'T  is  morning.     Let  us  wander  through  the  fields, 
Where  CIMABUE  15<J  found  a  shepherd-boy 
Tracing  his  idle  fancies  on  the  ground ; 
And  let  us  from  the  top  of  FIESOLE, 
Whence  GALILEO'S  glass  16°  by  night  observed 
The  phases  of  the  moon,  look  round  below 
On  AKNO'S  vale,  where  the  dove-colored  steer 
Is  ploughing  up  and  down  among  the  vines, 
While  many  a  careless  note  is  sung  aloud, 
Filling  the  air  with  sweetness  —  and  on  thee, 
Beautiful  FLORENCE  ! 1(il  all  within  thy  walls, 
Thy  groves  and  gardens,  pinnacles  and  towers, 
Drawn  to  our  feet. 

From  that  small  spire,  just  caught 
By  the  bright  ray,  that  church  among  the  rest 
By  one  of  old  distinguished  as  The  Bride,162 
Let  us  in  thought  pursue  (what  can  we  better  ?) 
Those  who  assembled  there  at  matin- time  ;163 
Who,  when  vice  revelled  and  along  the  street 
Tables  were  set,  what  time  the  bearer's  bell 
Rang  to  demand  the  dead  at  every  door, 
Came  out  into  the  meadows ;  and,  a  while 
Wandering  in  idleness,  but  not  in  folly, 
Sate  down  in  the  high  grass  and  in  the  shade 
Of  many  a  tree  sun-proof —  day  after  day, 
When  all  was  still  and  nothing  to  be  heard 
But  the  cicala's  voice  among  the  olives, 
Relating  in  a  ring,  to  banish  care, 
Their  hundred  tales.161 


THE   CAMPAGNA    OF   FLORENCE.  339 

Round  the  green  hill  they  went,165 
Round  underneath  —  first  to  a  splendid  house, 
Gherardi,  as  an  old  tradition  runs, 
That  on  the  left,  just  rising  from  the  vale ; 
A  place  for  luxury  —  the  painted  rooms, 
The  open  galleries  and  middle  court, 
Not  unprepared,  fragrant  and  gay  with  flowers. 
Then  westward  to  another,  nobler  yet ; 
That  on  the  right,  now  known  as  the  Palmieri, 
Where  Art  with  Nature  vied  —  a  Paradise 
With  verdurous  walls,  and  many  a  trellised  walk 
All  rose  and  jasmine,  many  a  twilight-glade 
Crossed  by  the  deer.     Then  to  the  Ladies'  Vale ; 
And  the  clear  lake,  that  as  by  magic  seemed 
To  lift  up  to  the  surface  every  stone 
Of  lustre  there,  and  the  diminutive  fish 
Innumerable,  dropt  with  crimson  and  gold, 
Now  motionless,  now  glancing  to  the  sun. 

Who  has  not  dwelt  on  their  voluptuous  day  ? 
The  morning  banquet  by  the  fountain-side,160 
While  the  small  birds  rejoiced  on  every  bough ; 
The  dance  that  followed,  and  the  noontide  slumber ; 
Then  the  tales  told  in  turn,  as  round  they  lay 
On  carpets,  the  fresh  waters  murmuring ; 
And  the  short  interval  of  pleasant  talk 
Till  supper-time,  when  many  a  siren-voice 
Sung  down  the  stars  ;  and,  as  they  left  the  sky, 
The  torches,  planted  in  the  sparkling  grass, 
And  everywhere  among  the  glowing  flowers, 
Burnt  bright  and  brighter. — He  1(ir  whose  dream  it  was 
(It  was  no  more)  sleeps  in  a  neighboring  vale ; 
Sleeps  in  the  church,  where,  in  his  ear,  I  ween, 


340  ITALY. 

The  friar  poured  out  his  wondrous  catalogue  •  l&~ 

A  ray,  imprimis,  of  the  star  that  shone 

To  the  Wise  Men  :  a  vial-full  of  sounds, 

The  musical  chimes  of  the  great  bells  that  hung 

In  SOLOMON'S  Temple  ;  and,  though  last  not  least, 

A  feather  from  the  Angel  GABRIEL'S  wing, 

Dropt  in  the  Virgin's  chamber.     That  dark  ridge, 

Stretching  south-east,  conceals  it  from  our  sight ; 

Not  so  his  lowly  roof  and  scanty  farm, 

His  copse  and  rill,  if  yet  a  trace  be  left, 

Who  lived  in  Val  di  Pesa,  suffering  long 

Want  and  neglect  and  (far,  far  worse)  reproach, 

With  calm,  unclouded  mind.100     The  glimmering  tower 

On  the  gray  rock  beneath,  his  landmark  once, 

Now  serves  for  ours,  and  points  out  where  he  ate 

His  bread  with  cheerfulness.     Who  sees  him  not 

('T  is  his  own  sketch  —  he  drew  it  from  himself)170 

Laden  with  cages  from  his  shoulder  slung, 

And  sallying  forth,  while  yet  the  morn  is  gray, 

To  catch  a  thrush  on  every  lime-twig  there  ; 

Or  in  the  wood  among  his  wood-cutters  ; 

Or  in  the  tavern  by  the  highway-side 

At  tric-trac  with  the  miller  ;  or  at  night, 

Doffing  his  rustic  suit,  and,  duly  clad, 

Entering  his  closet,  and,  among  his  books, 

Among  the  great  of  every  age  and  clime,171 

A  numerous  court,  turning  to  whom  he  pleased, 

Questioning  each  why  he  did  this  or  that, 

And  learning  how  to  overcome  the  fear 

Of  poverty  and  death  1 

Nearer  we  hail 
Thy  sunny  slope,  ARCETRI,  sung  of  old 


THE   CAMPAGNA   OF   FLORENCE.  341 

For  its  green  wine ; 172  dearer  to  me,  to  most, 

As  dwelt  on  by  that  great  astronomer,173 

Seven  years  a  prisoner  at  the  city-gate, 

Let  in  but  in  his  grave-clothes.174     Sacred  be 

His  villa  (justly  was  it  called  The  Gem  !)175 

Sacred  the  lawn,  where  many  a  cypress  threw 

Its  length  of  shadow,  while  he  watched  the  stars  ! 

Sacred  the  vineyard,  where,  while  yet  his  sight 

Glimmered,  at  blush  of  morn  he  dressed  his  vines. 

Chanting  aloud  in  gayety  of  heart 

Some  verse  of  ARIOSTO  ! 17(!  —  There,  unseen,177 

In  manly  beauty  MILTON  stood  before  him, 

Gazing  with  reverent  awe  —  MILTON,  his  guest, 

Just  then  come  forth,  all  life  and  enterprise ; 

He  in  his  old  age  and  extremity, 

Blind,  at  noon-day  exploring  with  his  staff ; 178 

His  eyes  upturned  as  to  the  golden  sun, 

His  eyeballs  idly  rolling.     Little  then 

Did  GALILEO  think  whom  he  received  • 

That  in  his  hand  he  held  the  hand  of  one 

Who  could  requite  him  —  who  would  spread  his  name 

O'er  lands  and  seas179 — great  as  himself,  nay,  greater; 

MILTON  as  little  that  in  him  he  saw, 

As  in  a  glass,  what  he  himself  should  be,180 

Destined  so  soon  to  fall  on  evil  days 

And  evil  tongues  —  so  soon,  alas  !  to  live 

In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compassed  round, 

And  solitude. 

Well  pleased,  could  we  pursue 
The  ARNO,  from  his  birthplace  in  the  clouds, 
So  near  the  yellow  TIBER'S  —  springing  up181 
From  his  four  fountains  on  the  Apennine, 
29* 


342  ITALY. 

That  mountain-ridge  a  sea-mark  to  the  ships 
Sailing  on  either  sea.     Downward  he  runs, 
Scattering  fresh  verdure  through  the  desolate  wild, 
Down  by  the  City  of  Hermits,183  and  the  woods 
That  only  echo  to  the  choral  hymn : 
Then  through  these  gardens  to  the  TUSCAN  sea, 
Reflecting  castles,  convents,  villages, 
And  those  great  rivals  in  an  elder  day, 
FLORENCE  and  PiSA1*3 — who  have  given  him  fame, 
Fame  everlasting,  but  who  stained  so  oft 
His  troubled  waters.     Oft,  alas  !  were  seen, 
When  flight,  pursuit,  and  hideous  rout  were  there, 
Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  imploring ; 1S 
The  man,  the  hero,  on  his  foaming  steed 
Borne  underneath,  already  in  the  realms 
Of  darkness.  —  Nor  did  night  or  burning  noon 
Bring  respite.     Oft,  as  that  great  artist  saw,185 
"Whose  pencil  had  a  voice,  the  cry  "  To  arms  !  " 
And  the  shrill  trumpet  hurried  up  the  bank 
Those  who  had  stolen  an  hour  to  breast  the  tide, 
And  wash  from  their  unharnessed  limbs  the  blood 
And  sweat  of  battle.     Sudden  was  the  rush,180 
Violent  the  tumult ;  for,  already  in  sight, 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet  the  danger  drew  ; 
Each  every  sinew  straining,  every  nerve, 
Each  snatching  up,  and  girding,  buckling  on 
Morion  and  greave  and  shirt  of  twisted  mail, 
As  for  his  life  —  no  more  perchance  to  taste, 
ARNO,  the  grateful  freshness  of  thy  glades, 
Thy  waters  —  where,  gxulting,  he  had  felt 
A  swimmer's  transport,  there,  alas  !  to  float. 
And  welter.  —  Nor  between  the  gusts  of  war, 


THE    CAMPAGNA    OF    FLORENCE.  343 

When  flocks  were  feeding,  and  the  shepherd's  pipe 

Gladdened  the  valley, —  when,  but  not  unarmed, 

The  sower  came  forth,  and,  following  him  that  ploughed. 

Threw  in  the  seed, —  did  thy  indignant  waves 

Escape  pollution.     Sullen  was  the  splash, 

Heavy  and  swift  the  plunge,  when  they  received 

The  key  that  just  had  grated  on  the  ear 

Of  UGOLINO,  ever  closing  up  * 

That  dismal  dungeon  thenceforth  to  be  named 

The  Tower  of  Famine.  —  Once  indeed  7t  was  thine, 

When  many  a  winter-flood,  thy  tributary, 

Was  through  its  rocky  glen  rushing,  resounding, 

And  thou  wert  in  thy  might,  to  save,  restore 

A  charge  most  precious.     To  the  nearest  ford, 

Hastening,  a  horseman  from  Arezzo  came, 

Careless,  impatient  of  delay,  a  babe 

Slung  in  a  basket  to  the  knotty  staff 

That  lay  athwart  his  saddle-bow.     He  spurs, 

He  enters  ;  and  his  horse,  alarmed,  perplexed, 

Halts  in  the  midst.     Great  is  the  stir,  the  strife  ; 

And.  lo  !  an  atom  on  that  dangerous  sea,187 

The  babe  is  floating  !     Fast  and  far  he  flies  ; 

Now  tempest-rocked,  now  whirling  round  and  round 

But  riot  to  perish.     By  thy  willing  waves 

Borne  to  the  shore,  among  the  bulrushes 

The  ark  has  rested  ;  and  unhurt,  secure 

As  on  his  mother's  breast,  he  sleeps  within, 

All  peace  !  or  never  had  the  nations  heard 

That  voice  so  sweet,  which  still  enchants,  inspires ; 

That  voice,  which  sung  of  love,  of  liberty. 

PETRARCH  lay  there  !  —  And  such  the  images 

That  here  spring  up  forever,  in  the  young 


344  ITALY. 

Kindling  poetic  fire  !     Such  they  that  came 
And  clustered  round  our  MILTON",  when  at  eve, 
Reclined  beside  thee,  ARNO  ;188  when  at  eve, 
Led  on  by  thee,  he  wandered  with  delight, 
Framing  Ovidian  verso,  and  through  thy  groves 
Gathering  wild  myrtle.     Such  the  poet's  dreams  ; 
Yet  not  such  only.     For,  look  round  and  say, 
Where  is  the  ground  that  did  not  drink  warm  blood, 
The  echo  that  had  lea,rnt  not  to  articulate 
The  cry  of  murder  ?  —  Fatal  was  the  day 
To  FLORENCE,  when  ('twas  in  a  narrow  street 
North  of  that  temple,  where  the  truly  great 
Sleep,  not  unhonored,  not  un visited  ; 
That  temple  sacred  to  the  Holy  Cross  — 
There  is  the  house  —  that  house  of  the  DONATI, 
Towerless,189  and  left  long  since,  but  to  the  last 
Braving  assault  —  all  rugged,  all  embossed 
Below,  and  still  distinguished  by  the  rings 
Of  brass,  that  held  in  war  and  festival-time 
Their  family-standards)  —  fatal  was  the  day 
To  Florence,  when,  at  morn,  at  the  ninth  hour, 
A  noble  dame  in  weeds  of  widowhood, 
Weeds  by  so  many  to  be  worn  so  soon, 
Stood  at  her  door ;  and,  like  a  sorceress,  flung 
Her  dazzling  spell.     Subtle  she  was,  and  rich, 
Rich  in  a  hidden  pearl  of  heavenly  light, 
Her  daughter's  beauty  ;  and  too  well  she  knew 
Its 'virtue  !     Patiently  she  stood  and  watched  ; 
Nor  stood  alone  —  but  spoke  not.  —  In  her  breast 
Her  purpose  lay ;  and,  as  a  youth  passed  by, 
Clad  for  the  nuptial  rite,  she  smiled  and  said, 
Lifting  a  corner  of  the  maiden's  veil, 


THE    CAMPAGNA    OF   FLORENCE.  345 

"  This  had  I  treasured  up  in  secret  for  thee. 

This  hast  thou  lost !  "     He  gazed  and  was  undone  ! 

Forgetting  —  not  forgot  —  he  broke  the  bond, 

And  paid  the  penalty,  losing  his  life 

At  the  bridge-foot ;  19°  and  hence  a  world  of  woe  !  m 

Vengeance  for  vengeance  crying,  blood  for  blood ; 

No  intermission  !     Law,  that  slumbers  not, 

And,  like  the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword, 

Sits  over  all,  at  once  chastising,  healing, 

Himself  the  avenger,  went ;  and  every  street 

Ran  red  with  mutual  slaughter  —  though  sometimes 

The  young  forgot  the  lesson  they  had  learnt, 

And  loved  when  they  should  hate — like  thee,  IMELDA, 

Thee  and  thy  PAOLO.     When  last  ye  met 

In  that  still  hour  (the  heat,  the  glare  was  gone, 

Not  so  the  splendor  —  through  the  cedar-grove 

A  radiance  streamed  like  a  consuming  fire, 

As  though  the  glorious  orb,  in  its  descent, 

Had  come  and  rested  there) — when  last  ye  met, 

And  thy  relentless  brothers  dragged  him  forth, 

It  had  been  well  hadst  thou  slept  on,  IMELDA,192 

Nor  from  thy  trance  of  fear  awaked,  as  night 

Fell  on  that  fatal  spot,  to  wish  thee  dead, 

To  track  him  by  his  blood,  to  search,  to  find. 

Then  fling  thee  down  to  catch  a  word,  a  look, 

A  sigh,  if  yet  thou  couldst  (alas  !  thou  couldst  not), 

And  die,  unseen,  unthought  of —  from  the  wound 

Sucking  the  poison.193 

Yet,  when  slavery  came, 

Worse  followed.19*     Genius,  Valor  left  the  land, 
Indignant  —  all  that  had  from  age  to  age 
Adorned,  ennobled :  and  headlong  they  fell. 


346  ITALY. 

Tyrant  and  slave.     For  deeds  of  violence, 

Done  in  broad  day  and  more  than  half  redeemed 

By  many  a  great  and  generous  sacrifice 

Of  self  to  others,  came  the  unpledged  bowl, 

The  stab  of  the  stiletto.     Gliding  by 

Unnoticed,  in  slouched  hat  and  muffling  cloak, 

That  just  discovered,  Caravaggio-like, 

A  swarthy  cheek,  black  brow,  and  eye  of  flame, 

The  bravo  stole,  and  o'er  the  shoulder  plunged 

To  the  heart's  core,  or  from  beneath  the  ribs 

Slanting  (a  surer  path,  as  some  averred) 

Struck  upward  —  then  slunk  off,  or,  if  pursued, 

Made  for  the  sanctuary,  and  there  along 

The  glimmering  aisle  among  the  worshippers 

Wandered  with  restless  step  and  jealous  look, 

Dropping  thick  blood.  —  Misnamed  to  lull  alarm, 

In  every  palace  was  The  Laboratory,1115 

Where  he  within  brewed  poisons  swift  and  slow, 

That  scattered  terror  till  all  things  seemed  poisonous, 

And  brave  men  trembled  if  a  hand  held  out 

A  nosegay  or  a  letter  ;  while  the  great 

Drank  only  from  the  Venice-glass,  that  broke, 

That  shivered,  scattering  round  it  as  in  scorn, 

If  aught  malignant,  aught  of  thine  was  there, 

Cruel  TopiiANA;190  and  pawned  provinces 

For  that  miraculous  gem,  the  gem  that  gave 

A  sign  infallible  of  coming  ill,1"7 

That  clouded  though  the  vehicle  of  death 

Were  an  invisible  perfume.     Happy  then 

The  guest  to  whom  at  sleeping-time  't  was  said, 

But  in  an  under  voice  (a  lady's  page 

Speaks  in  no  louder),  "  Pass  not  on.     That  door 


THE    CAMPAGNA    OF   FLOKENCE.  347 

Leads  to  another  which  awaits  thy  coming, 

One  in  the  floor  —  now  left,  alas  !  unlocked.198 

No  eye  detects  it  —  lying  under-foot, 

Just  as  thou  entered,  at  the  threshold-stone  ; 

Ready  to  fall  and  plunge  thee  into  night 

And  long  oblivion  !  "   —In  that  evil  hour 

Where  lurked  not  danger  7     Through  the  fairy-land 

No  seat  of  pleasure  glittering  half-way  down, 

No  hunting-place  —  but  with  some  damning  spot 

That  will  not  be  washed  out  !     There,  at  Caiano,199 

Where,  when  the  hawks  were  mewed  and  evening  came, 

PULCI  would  set  the  table  in  a  roar 

With  his  wild  lay  **   —  there,  where  the  sun  descends, 

And  hill  and  dale  are  lost,  veiled  with  his  beams, 

The  fair  Venetian 201  died,  she  and  her  lord  — 

Died  of  a  posset  drugged  by  him  who  sate 

And  saw  them  suffer,  flinging  back  the  charge ; 

The  murderer  on  the  murdered. —  Sobs  of  grief, 

Sounds  inarticulate  .  .  suddenly  stopt, 

And  followed  by  a  struggle  and  a  gasp, 

A  gasp  in  death,  are  heard  yet  in  Cerreto, 

Along  the  marble  halls  and  staircases, 

Nightly  at  twelve  ;  and,  at  the  self-same  hour, 

Shrieks,  such  as  penetrate  the  inmost  soul. 

Such  as  awake  the  innocent  babe  to  long, 

Long  wailing,  echo  through  the  emptiness 

Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills,20^ 

Frowning  on  him  who  comes  from  Pietra-Mala  : 

In  them,  alas  !  within  five  days  and  less, 

Two  unsuspecting  victims,  passing  fair, 

Welcomed  with  kisses,  and  slain  cruelly, 

One  with  the  knife,  one  with  the  fetal  noose. 


348  ITALY. 

But,  lo  !  the  sun  is  setting ;  m  earth  and  sky204 
One  blaze  of  glory. —  What  we  saw  but  now, 
As  though  it  were  not,  though  it  had  not  been  ! 
He  lingers  yet ;  and,  lessening  to  a  point, 
Shines  like  the  eye  of  Heaven  —  then  withdraws ; 
And  from  the  zenith  to  the  utmost  skirts 
All  is  celestial  red  !     The  hour  is  come 
When  they  that  sail  along  the  distant  seas 
Languish  for  home  ;  and  they  that  in  the  morn 
Said  to  sweet  friends  "  farewell  '•  melt  as  at  parting ; 
When,  just  gone  forth,  the  pilgrim,  if  he  hears, 
As  now  we  hear  it,  wandering  round  the  hill, 
The  bell  that  seems  to  mourn  the  dying  day, 
Slackens  his  pace  arid  sighs,  and  those  he  loved 
Loves  more  than  ever.     But  who  feels  it  not  ? 
And  well  may  we,  for  we  are  far  away. 


THE    PILGRIM. 

IT  was  an  hour  of  universal  joy.205 

The  lark  was  up  and  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 

Singing,  as  sure  to  enter  when  he  came ; 

The  butterfly  was  basking  in  my  path, 

His  radiant  wings  unfolded.     From  below 

The  bell  of  prayer  rose  slowly,  plaintively ; 

And  odors,  such  as  welcome  in  the  day. 

Such  as  salute  the  early  traveller, 

And  come  and  go,  each  sweeter  than  the  last, 

Were  rising.     Hill  and  valley  breathed  delight ; 

And  not  a  living  thing  but  blessed  the  hour  ! 


THE   PILGRIM.  349 

In  every  bush  and  brake  there  was  a  voice 
Responsive  ! 

From  the  THRASYMEXE,  that  now 
Slept  in  the  sun,  a  lake  of  molten  gold, 
And  from  the  shore  that  once,  when  armies  met,206 
Rocked  to  and  fro  unfelt,  so  terrible 
The  rage,  the  slaughter,  I  had  turned  away  ; 
The  path,  that  led  me,  leading  through  a  wood, 
A  fairy-wilderness  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  by  a  brook  that,  in  the  day  of  strife,2"7" 
Ran  blood,  but  now  runs  amber  —  when  a  glade, 
Far,  far  within,  sunned  only  at  noon-day, 
Suddenly  opened.     Many  a  bench  was  there, 
Each  round  its  ancient  elm ;  and  many  a  track, 
Well  known  to  them  that  from  the  highway  loved 
A  while  to  deviate.     In  the  midst  a  cross 
Of  mouldering  stone  as  in  a  temple  stood, 
Solemn,  severe  ;  coeval  with  the  trees 
That  round  it  in  majestic  order  rose  ; 
And  on  the  lowest  step  a  pilgrim  knelt 
In  fervent  prayer.     He  was  the  first  I  saw 
(Save  in  the  tumult  of  a  midnight-masque, 
A  revel,  where  none  cares  to  play  his  part, 
And  they,  that  speak,  at  once  dissolve  the  charm)  — 
The  first  in  sober  truth,  no  counterfeit ; 
And,  when  his  orisons  were  duly  paid, 
He  rose,  and  we  exchanged,  as  all  are  wont, 
A  traveller's  greeting. 

Young,  and  of  an  age 

When  youth  is  most  attractive,  when  a  light 
Plays  round  and  round,  reflected,  while  it  lasts, 
From  some  attendant  spirit,  that  ere  long 
30 


350  ITALY. 

(His  charge  relinquished  with  a  sigh,  a  tear) 

Wings  his  flight  upward  —  with  a  look  he  won 

My  favor  :  and,  the  spell  of  silence  broke, 

I  could  not  but  continue.  —  "  Whence,"  I  asked, 

1 '  Whence  art  thou '] "  —  "  From  Mont'  alto, ' '  he  replied, 

"My  native  village  in  the  Apennines."  — 

"  And  whither  journeying?  "    —  "  To  the  holy  shrine 

Of  Saint  Antonio  in  the  city  of  PADUA. 

Perhaps,  if  thou  hast  ever  gone  so  far, 

Thou  wilt  direct  my  course."-  —  "  Most  willingly  ; 

But  thou  hast  much  to  do,  much  to  endure, 

Ere  thou  hast  entered  where  the  silver  lamps 

Burn  ever.     Tell  me  ...  I  would  not  transgress, 

Yet  ask  I  must  .  .  .  what  could  have  brought  thee  forth, 

Nothing  in  act  or  thought  to  be  atoned  for  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  vow  I  made  in  my  distress. 

We  were  so  blest,  none  were  so  blest  as  we, 

Till  sickness  came.     First,  as  death-struck,  I  fell ; 

Then  my  beloved  sister  ;  and  ere  long, 

Worn  with  continual  watchings,  night  and  day, 

Our  saint-like  mother.     Worse  and  worse  she  grew ; 

And  in  my  anguish,  my  despair,  I  vowed, 

That  if  she  lived,  if  Heaven  restored  her  to  us, 

I  would  forthwith,  and  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds, 

Visit  that  holy  shrine.     My  vow  was  heard ; 

And  therefore  am  I  come."-  —  "  Blest  be  thy  steps ; 

And  may  those  weeds,  so  reverenced  of  old, 

Guard  thee  in  danger  ! "  —  "  They  are  nothing  worth. 

But  they  are  worn  in  humble  confidence  ; 

Nor  would  I  for  the  richest  robe  resign  them, 

Wrought,  as  they  were,  by  those  I  love  so  well, 

Lauretta  and  my  sister ;   theirs  the  task, . 


AN   INTERVIEW.  351 

But  none  to  them,  a  pleasure,  a  delight, 

To  ply  their  utmost  skill,  and  send  me  forth 

As  best  became  this  service.     Their  last  words, 

'  Fare  thee  well,  Carlo.     We  shall  count  the  hours  ! ' 

Will  not  go  from  me."  — "Health  and  strength  be  thine 

In  thy  long  travel !     May  no  sunbeam  strike  ; 

No  vapor  cling  and  wither  !     May'st  thou  be, 

Sleeping  or  waking,  sacred  and  secure  ; 

And  when  again  thou  com'  st,  thy  labor  done, 

Joy  be  among  ye  !     In  that  happy  hour 

All  will  pour  forth  to  bid  thee  welcome,  Carlo; 

And  there  is  one,  or  I  am  much  deceived, 

One  thou  hast  named,  who  will  not  be  the  last."  — 

"  0,  she  is  true  as  Truth  itself  can  be  ! 

But,  ah !  thou  know'st  her  not.  Would  that  thou  couldst ! 

My  steps  I  quicken  when  I  think  of  her ; 

For,  though  they  take  me  further  from  her  door, 

I  shall  return  the  sooner." 


AN   INTERVIEW. 

PLEASURE  that  comes  unlooked-for  is  thrice  welcome ; 
And,  if  it  stir  the  heart,  if  aught  be  there 
That  may  hereafter  in  a  thoughtful  hour 
Wake  but  a  sigh,  't  is  treasured  up  among 
The  things  most  precious  !  and  the  day  it  came 
Is  noted  as  a  white  day  in  our  lives. 

The  sun  was  wheeling  westward,  and  the  cliffs 
And  nodding  woods,  that  everlastingly 
(Such  the  dominion  of  thy  mighty  voice,208 
Thy  voice,  VELINO,  uttered  in  the  mist) 


352  ITALY. 

Hear  thee  and  answer  thee,  were  left  at  length 

For  others  still  as  noon ;  and  on  we  strayed 

From  wild  to  wilder,  nothing  hospitable 

Seen  up  or  down,  no  bush  or  green  or  dry,209 

That  ancient  symbol  at  the  cottage-door, 

Offering  refreshment  —  when  LUIGI  cried, 

"  Well,  of  a  thousand  tracks  we  chose  the  best !  " 

And,  turning  round  an  oak,  oracular  once, 

Now  lightning-struck,  a  cave,  a  thoroughfare 

For  all  that  came,  each  entrance  a  broad  arch, 

Whence  many  a  deer,  rustling  his  velvet  coat, 

Had  issued,  many  a  gypsy  and  her  brood 

Peered  forth,  then  housed  again  —  the  floor  yet  gray 

With  ashes,  and  the  sides,  where  roughest,  hung 

Loosely  with  locks  of  hair  —  I  looked  and  saw 

What,  seen  in  such  an  hour  by  Sancho  Panza, 

Had  given  his  honest  countenance  a  breadth, 

His  cheeks  a  blush  of  pleasure  and  surprise, 

Unknown  before,  had  chained  him  to  the  spot, 

And  thou,  Sir  Knight,  hadst  traversed  hill  and  dale, 

Squire-less. Below  and  winding  far  away, 

A  narrow  glade  unfolded,  such  as  Spring 

Broiders  with  flowers,  and,  when  the  moon  is  high, 

The  hare  delights  to  race  in,  scattering  round 

The  silvery  dews.210     Cedar  and  cypress  threw 

Singly  their  depth  of  shadow,  checkering 

The  greensward,  and,  what  grew  in  frequent  tufts, 

An  underwood  of  myrtle,  that  by  fits 

Sent  up  a  gale  of  fragrance.     Through  the  midst, 

Reflecting,  as  it  ran,  purple  and  gold, 

A  rainbow's  splendor  (somewhere  in  the  east 

Rain-drops  were  falling  fast),  a  rivulet 


AN    INTERVIEW.  353 

Sported  as  loth  to  go ;  and  on  the  bank 
Stood  (in  the  eyes  of  one,  if  not  of  both, 
Worth  all  the  rest  and  more)  a  sumpter-mule 
Well  laden,  while  two  menials  as  in  haste 
Drew  from  his  ample  panniers,  ranging  round 
Viands  and  fruits  on  many  a  shining  salver, 
And  plunging  in  the  cool  translucent  wave 
Flasks  of  delicious  wine.  —  Anon  a  horn 
Blew,  through  the  champaign  bidding  to  the  feast, 
Its  jocund  note  to  other  ears  addressed, 
Not  ours :  and,  slowly  coming  by  a  path, 
That,  ere  it  issued  from  an  ilex-grove, 
Was  seen  far  inward,  though  along  the  glade 
Distinguished  only  by  a  fresher  verdure, 
Peasants  approached,  one  leading  in  a  leash 
Beagles  yet  panting,  one  with  various  game 
In  rich  confusion  slung,  before,  behind, 
Leveret  and  quail  and  pheasant.     All  announced 
The  chase  as  over  ;  and  ere  long  appeared, 
Their  horses  full  of  fire,  champing  the  curb, 
For  the  white  foam  was  dry  upon  the  flank, 
Two  in  close  converse,  each  in  each  delighting, 
Their  plumage  waving  as  instinct  with  life ; 
A  lady  young  and  graceful,  and  a  youth, 
Yet  younger,  bearing  on  a  falconer's  glove, 
As  in  the  golden,  the  romantic  time, 
His  falcon  hooded.     Like  some  spirit  of  air, 
Or  fairy-vision,  such  as  feigned  of  old, 
The  lady,  while  her  courser  pawed  the  ground, 
Alighted  ;  and  her  beauty,  as  she  trod 
The  enamelled  bank,  bruising  nor  herb  nor  flower, 
That  place  illumined.     Ah  !  who  should  she  be, 
30* 


354  ITALY. 

And  with  her  brother,  as  when  last  we  met 

(When  the  first  lark  had  sung  ere  half  was  said, 

And  as  she  stood,  bidding  adieu,  her  voice, 

So  sweet  it  was,  recalled  me  like  a  spell)  — 

Who  but  Angelica  ?  —    -  That  day  we  gave 

To  pleasure,  and,  unconscious  of  their  flight, 

Another  and  another  !  hers  a  home 

Dropt  from  the  sky  amid  the  wild  and  rude, 

Loretto-like ;  where  all  was  as  a  dream, 

A  dream  spun  out  of  some  Arabian  tale 

Read  or  related  in  a  jasmine  bower, 

Some  balmy  eve.     The  rising  moon  we  hailed, 

Duly,  devoutly,  from  a  vestibule 

Of  many  an  arch,  o'er- wrought  and  lavishly 

With  many  a  labyrinth  of  sylphs  and  flowers, 

When  RAPHAEL  and  his  school  from  FLORENCE  came, 

Filling  the  land  with  splendor211  —  nor  less  oft 

Watched  her,  declining,  from  a  silent  dell, 

Not  silent  once,  what  time  in  rivalry 

TASSO,  GUARIXI,  waved  their  wizard- wands, 

Peopling  the  groves  from  Arcady,  and,  lo  ! 

Fair  forms  appeared,  murmuring  melodious  verse,212 

—  Then,  in  their  day,  a  sylvan  theatre, 

Mossy  the  seats,  the  stage  a  verdurous  floor, 

The  scenery  rock  and  shrub-wood,  Nature's  own  j 

Nature  the  architect. 


MCOTORIO.  355 


MOXTORIO. 

GENEROUS,  and  ardent,  and  as  romantic  as  he  could  be, 
MONTORIO  was  in  his  earliest  youth,  when,  on  a  summer- 
evening  not  many  years  ago,  he  arrived  at  the  Baths  of 
*  *  *.  With  a  heavy  heart,  and  with  many  a  blessing  on 
his  head,  he  had  set  out  on  his  travels  at  day-break.  It  was 
his  first  flight  from  home ;  but  he  was  now  to  enter  the 
world :  and  the  moon  was  up  and  in  the  zenith  when  he 
alighted  at  the  Three  Moors,213  a  venerable  house  of  vast 
dimensions,  and  anciently  a  palace  of  the  Albertini  family, 
whose  arms*  were  emblazoned  on  the  walls. 

Every  window  was  full  of  light,  and  great  was  the  stir, 
above  and  below ;  but  his  thoughts  were  on  those  he  had 
left  so  lately ;  and,  retiring  early  to  rest,  and  to  a  couch 
the  very  first  for  which  he  had  ever  exchanged  his  own,  he 
was  soon  among  them  once  more :  undisturbed  in  his  sleep 
by  the  music  that  came  at  intervals  from  a  pavilion  in  the 
garden,  where  some  of  the  company  had  assembled  to  dance. 

But,  secluded  as  he  was,  he  was  not  secure  from  intru 
sion  :  and  Fortune  resolved  on  that  night  to  play  a  frolic  in 
his  chamber,  a  frolic  that  was  to  determine  the  color  of  his 
life.  Boccaccio  himself  has  not  recorded  a  wilder;  nor 
would  he,  if  he  had  known  it,  have  left  the  story  untold. 

At  the  first  glimmering  of  day  he  awaked :  and,  looking 
round,  he  beheld  —  it  could  not  be  an  illusion ;  yet  any 
thing  so  lovely,  so  angelical,  he  had  never  seen  before  — 
no,  not  even  in  his  dreams  —  a  lady  still  younger  than 
himself,  and  in  the  profoundest,  the  sweetest  slumber  by  his 
side.  But,  while  he  gazed,  she  was  gone,  and  through  a 
door  that  had  escaped  his  notice.  Like  a  zephyr  she  trod 


356  ITALY. 

the  floor  with  her  dazzling  and  beautiful  feet,  and,  while  he 
gazed,  she  was  gone.  Yet  still  he  gazed ;  and,  snatching 
up  a  bracelet  which  she  had  dropt  in  her  flight,  "  Then  she 
is  earthly!"  he  cried.  "But  whence  could  she  come? 
All  innocence,  all  purity,  she  must  have  wandered  in  her 
sleep."  214 

When  he  arose,  his  anxious  eyes  sought  her  everywhere; 
but  in  vain.  Many  of  the  young  and  the  gay  were  abroad, 
and  moving  as  usual  in  the  light  of  the  morning;  but, 
among  them  all,  there  was  nothing  like  her.  Within  or 
without,  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen ;  and,  at  length,  in  his 
despair  he  resolved  to  address  himself  to  his  hostess. 

"  Who  were  my  nearest  neighbors  in  that  turret?" 

"  The  Marchioness  de  *  *  *  *  and  her  two  daughters, 
the  ladies  Clara  and  Violetta ;  the  youngest  beautiful  as  the 
day!" 

"  And  where  are  they  now  ?  " 

"  They  are  gone  ;  but  we  cannot  say  whither.  They  set 
out  soon  after  sunrise." 

At  a  late  hour  they  had  left  the  pavilion,  and  had  retired 
to  their  toilet-chamber,  a  chamber  of  oak  richly  carved,  that 
had  once  been  an  oratory,  and,  afterwards,  what  was  no 
less  essential  to  a  house  of  that  antiquity,  a  place  of  resort 
for  two  or  three  ghosts  of  the  family.  But,  having  long 
lost  its  sanctity,  it  had  now  lost  its  terrors :  and,  gloomy  as 
its  aspect  was,  Violetta  was  soon  sitting  there  alone.  "Go," 
said  she  to  her  sister,  when  her  mother  withdrew  for  the 
night,  and  her  sister  was  preparing  to  follow,  "go,  Clara. 
I  will  not  be  long."  And  down  she  sat  to  a  chapter  of  the 
Promessi  Sposi?15 

But  she  might  well  forget  her  promise,  forgetting  where 
she  was.  She  was  now  under  the  wand  of  an  enchanter ; 


MONTORIO.  357 

and  she  read  and  read  till  the  clock  struck  three,  and  the 
taper  flickered  in  the  socket.  She  started  up  as  from  a 
trance ;  she  threw  off  her  wreath  of  roses ;  she  gathered  her 
tresses  into  a  net ; 21C  and,  snatching  a  last  look  in  the  mirror, 
her  eyelids  heavy  with  sleep,  and  the  light  glimmering  and 
dying,  she  opened  a  wrong  door,  a  door  that  had  been  left 
unlocked ;  and,  stealing  along  on  tip- toe,  (how  often  may 
Innocence  wear  the  semblance  of  Guilt  !)  she  lay  down  as 
by  her  sleeping  sister;  and  instantly,  almost  before  the 
pillow  on  which  she  reclined  her  head  had  done  sinking,  her 
sleep  was  as  the  sleep  of  childhood. 

When  morning  came,  a  murmur  strange  to  her  ear  alarmed 
her.  —  What  could  it  be  ?  — Where  was  she  ?  —  she  looked 
not ;  she  listened  not ;  but,  like  a  fawn  from  the  covert,  up 
she  sprung  and  was  gone. 

It  was  she,  then,  that  he  sought ;  it  was  she  who,  so  un 
consciously,  had  taught  him  to  love ;  and,  night  and  day, 
he  pursued  her,  till  in  the  Cathedral  of  Perugia  he  dis 
covered  her  at  a  solemn  service,  as  she  knelt  between  her 
mother  and  her  sister  among  the  rich  and  the  poor. 

From  that  hour  did  he  endeavor  to  win  her  regard  by 
every  attention,  every  assiduity  that  love  could  dictate ;  nor 
did  he  cease  till  he  had  won  it,  and  till  she  had  consented 
to  be  his  :  but  never  did  the  secret  escape  from  his  lips ;  nor 
was  it  till  some  years  afterwards  that  he  said  to  her,  on  an 
anniversary  of  their  nuptials,  ' '  Violetta,  it  was  a  joyful  day 
to  me,  a  day  from  which  I  date  the  happiness  of  my  life ; 
but,  if  marriages  are  written  in  heaven,"  and,  as  he  spoke, 
he  restored  to  her  arm  the  bracelet  which  he  had  treasured 
up  so  long,  "  how  strange  are  the  circumstances  by  which 
they  are  sometimes  brought  about ;  for,  if  you  had  not  lost 
yourself,  Violetta,  I  might  never  have  found  you." 


ITALY. 


ROME. 

I  AM  in  ROME  !     Oft  as  the  morning-ray 

Visits  these  eyes,  waking  at  once  I  cry, 

Whence  this  excess  of  joy  ?     What  has  befallen  me  ? 

And  from  within  a  thrilling  voice  replies, 

Thou  art  in  ROME  !  A  thousand  busy  thoughts 

Rush  on  my  mind,  a  thousand  images; 

And  I  spring  up  as  girt  to  run  a  race  ! 

Thou  art  in  ROME  !  the  city  that  so  long 
Reigned  absolute,  the  mistress  of  the  world ; 
The  mighty  vision  that  the  prophets  saw, 
And  trembled ;  that  from  nothing,  from  the  least, 
The  lowliest  village  (what  but  here  and  there 
A  reed-roofed  cabin  by  the  river-side  ?) 
Grew  into  everything ;  and,  year  by  year, 
Patiently,  fearlessly,  working  her  way 
O'er  brook  and  field,  o'er  continent  and  sea, 
Not  like  the  merchant  with  his  merchandise, 
Or  traveller  with  staff  and  scrip  exploring, 
But  ever  hand  to  hand  and  foot  to  foot, 
Through  nations  numberless  in  battle-array, 
Each  behind  each,  each,  when  the  other  fell, 
Up  and  in  arms,  at  length  subdued  them  all. 

Thou  art  in  ROME  !  the  city,  where  the  Gauls, 
Entering  at  sunrise  through  her  open  gates, 
And,  through  her  streets  silent  and  desolate, 
Marching  to  slay,  thought  they  saw  gods,  not  men  ; 
The  city,  that,  by  temperance,  fortitude, 
And  love  of  glory,  towered  above  the  clouds, 
Then  fell  —  but,  falling,  kept  the  highest  seat, 


ROME.  359 

And  in  her  loneliness,  her  pomp  of  woe, 
Where  now  she  dwells,  withdrawn  into  the  wild, 
Still  o'er  the  mind  maintains,  from  age  to  age, 

Her  empire  undiminished. There,  as  though 

Grandeur  attracted  grandeur,  are  beheld 

All  things  that  strike,  ennoble 217  —  from  the  depths 

Of  EGYPT,  from  the  classic  fields  of  GREECE, 

Her  groves,  her  temples  —  all  things  that  inspire 

Wonder,  delight !     Who  would  not  say  the  forms 

Most  perfect,  most  divine,  had  by  consent 

Flocked  thither  to  abide  eternally, 

Within  those  silent  chambers  where  they  dwell,. 

In  happy  intercourse  ? And  I  am  there  ! 

Ah !  little  thought  I,  when  in  school  I  sate, 
A  school-boy  on  his  bench,  at  early  dawn 
Glowing  with  Roman  story,  I  should  live 
To  tread  the  APPIAN,218  once  an  avenue 
Of  monuments  most  glorious,  palaces, 
Their  doors  sealed  up  and  silent  as  the  night, 
The  dwellings  of  the  illustrious  dead  —  to  turn 
Toward  TIBER,  and,  beyond  the  city-gate, 
Pour  out  my  unpremeditated  verse 
Where  on  his  mule  I  might  have  met  so  oft 
HORACE  himself219  —  or  climb  the  PALATINE, 
Dreaming  of  old  EVANDER  and  his  guest, 
Dreaming  and  lost  on  that  proud  eminence, 
Long  while  the  seat  of  ROME,  hereafter  found 
Less  than  enough  (so  monstrous  was  the  brood 
Engendered  there,  so  Titan-like)  to  lodge 
One  in  his  madness ;  2-°  and  inscribe  my  name, 
My  name  and  date,  on  some  broad  aloe-leaf, 
That  shoots  and  spreads  within  those  very  walls 


360  ITALY. 

Where  VIRGIL  read  aloud  his  tale  divine. 
Where  his  voice  faltered  and  a  mother  wept 
Tears  of  delight !  m 

But  what  the  narrow  space 
Just  underneath  ?     In  many  a  heap  the  ground 
Heaves,  as  if  Ruin  in  a  frantic  mood 
Had  done  his  utmost.     Here  and  there  appears, 
As  left  to  show  his  handiwork  not  ours, 
An  idle  column,  a  half-buried  arch, 

A  wall  of  some  great  temple. It  was  once, 

And  long,  the  centre  of  their  universe,"2 
The  EORUM — whence  a  mandate,  eagle-winged, 
Went  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.     Let  us  descend 
Slowly.     At  every  step  much  may  be  lost. 
The  very  dust  we  tread  stirs  as  with  life  ; 
And  not  a  breath  but  from  the  ground  sends  up 
Something  of  human  grandeur. 

We  are  come, 

Are  now  where  once  the  mightiest  spirits  met 
In  terrible  conflict :  this,  while  ROME  was  free, 
The  noblest  theatre  on  this  side  heaven  ! 

—  Here  the  first  BRUTUS  stood,  when  o'er  the  corse 
Of  her  so  chaste  all  mourned,  and  from  his  cloud 
Burst  like  a  god.     Here,  holding  up  the  knife 
That  ran  with  blood,  the  blood  of  his  own  child, 
VIRGINIUS  called  down  vengeance.   But  whence  spoke 
They  who  harangued  the  people ;  turning  now  ^ 
To  the  twelve  tables,224  now  with  lifted  hands 
To  the  Capitoline  Jove,  whose  fulgent  shape 
In  the  unclouded  azure  shone  far  off, 
And  to  the  shepherd  on  the  Alban  mount 
Seemed  like  a  star  new- risen  1 225  Where  were  ranged 
In  rough  array,  as  on  their  element, 


ROME.  361 

The  beaks  of  those  old  galleys,  destined  still m 
To  brave  the  brunt  of  war  —  at  last  to  know 
A  calm  far  worse,  a  silence  as  in  death  ? 
All  spiritless ;  from  that  disastrous  hour 
When  he,  the  bravest,  gentlest  of  them  all,227 
Scorning  the  chains  he  could  not  hope  to  break,228 
Fell  on  his  sword  ! 

Along  the  Sacred  Way  m 
Hither  the  triumph  came,  and,  winding  round 
With  acclamation,  and  the  martial  clang 
Of  instruments,  and  cars  laden  with  spoil, 
Stopped  at  the  sacred  stair  that  then  appeared, 
Then  through  the  darkness  broke,  ample,  star-bright, 
As  though  it  led  to  heaven.     'T  was  night ;  but  now 
A  thousand  torches,  turning  night  to  day,230 
Blazed,  and  the  victor,  springing  from  his  seat, 
Went  up,  and,  kneeling  as  in  fervent  prayer, 
Entered  the  Capitol.     But  what  are  they 
Who  at  the  foot  withdraw,  a  mournful  train 
In  fetters  ?    And  who,  yet  incredulous, 
Now  gazing  wildly  round,  now  on  his  sons, 
On  those  so  young,  well  pleased  with  all  they  see,231 
Staggers  along,  the  last  ?  — They  are  the  fallen, 
Those  who  were  spared  to  grace  the  chariot- wheels  j 
And  there  they  parted,  where  the  road  divides, 
The  victor  and  the  vanquished  —  there  withdrew  ; 
He  to  the  festal  board,  and  they  to  die. 

Well  might  the  great,  the  mighty  of  the  world,232 
They  who  were  wont  to  fare  deliciously 
And  war  but  for  a  kingdom  more  or  less, 
Shrink  back,  nor  from  their  thrones  endure  to  look, 
To  think  that  way  !    Well  might  they  in  their  pomp 
31 


362  ITALY. 

Humble  themselves,  and  kneel  and  supplicate 
To  be  delivered  from  a  dream  like  this  ! 

Here  CINCINNATUS  passed,  his  plough  the  while     N 
Left  in  the  furrow ;  and  how  many  more, 
Whose  laurels  fade  not,  who  still  walk  the  earth, 
Consuls,  Dictators,  still  in  Curule  state 
Sit  and  decide ;  and,  as  of  old  in  ROME, 
Name  but  their  names,  set  every  heart  on  fire ! 

Here,  in  his  bonds,  he  whom  the  phalanx  saved  not,233 
The  last  on  PHILIP'S  throne;  and  the  Numidian,234 
So  soon  to  say,  stript  of  his  cumbrous  robe, 
Stript  to  the  skin,  and  in  his  nakedness 
Thrust  under  ground,  "How  cold  this  bath  of  yours  ! " 
And  thy  proud  queen,  PALMYRA,  through  the  sands  ^ 
Pursued,  o'ertaken  on  her  dromedary  ; 
Whose  temples,  palaces,  a  wondrous  dream 
That  passes  not  away,  for  many  a  league 
Illumine  yet  the  desert.     Some  invoked 
Death  and  escaped ;  "m  the  Egyptian,  when  her  asp 
Came  from  his  covert  under  the  green  leaf;  ^ 
And  HANNIBAL  himself;  and  she  who  said, 
Taking  the  fatal  cup  between  her  hands,238 
1 '  Tell  him  I  would  it  had  come  yesterday  : 
For  then  it  had  not  been  his  nuptial  gift." 

Now  all  is  changed  ;  and  here,  as  in  the  wild, 
The  day  is  silent,  dreary  as  the  night ; 
None  stirring,  save  the  herdsman  and  his  herd, 
Savage  alike  ;  or  they  that  would  explore, 
Discuss  and  learnedly  ;  or  they  that  come 
(And  there  are  many  who  have  crossed  the  earth) 
That  they  may  give  the  hours  to  meditation, 
And  wander,  often  saying  to  themselves, 
"  This  was  the  ROMAN  FORUM  !  " 


A   FUNERAL.  363 


A  FUNERAL. 

"  WHENCE  this  delay  ?  " — "  Along  the  crowded  street 

A  funeral  comes,  and  with  unusual  pomp." 

So  I  withdrew  a  little  and  stood  still, 

While  it  went  by.    "  She  died  as  she  deserved," 

Said  an  Abate,  gathering  up  his  cloak, 

And  with  a  shrug  retreating  as  the  tide 

Flowed  more  and  more.  — "  But  she  was  beautiful ! " 

Replied  a  soldier  of  the  Pontiff's  guard. 

"  And  innocent  as  beautiful !  "  exclaimed 

A  matron  sitting  in  her  stall,  hung  round 

With  garlands,  holy  pictures,  and  what  not  ? 

Her  Alban  grapes  and  Tusculan  figs  displayed 

In  rich  profusion.     From  her  heart  she  spoke  ; 

And  I  accosted  her  to  hear  her  story. 

"  The  stab,"  she  cried,  "  was  given  in  jealousy  ; 

But  never  fled  a  purer  spirit  to  heaven, 

As  thou  wilt  say,  or  much  my  mind  misleads, 

When  thou  hast  seen  her  face.     Last  night  at  dusk, 

When  on  her  way  from  vespers  —  none  were  near, 

None  save  her  serving-boy  who  knelt  and  wept, 

But  what  could  tears  avail  him,  when  she  fell  — 

Last  night  at  dusk,  the  clock  then  striking  nine, 

Just  by  the  fountain  —  that  before  the  church, 

The  church  she  always  used,  St.  Isidore's  — 

Alas  !  I  knew  her  from  her  earliest  youth, 

That  excellent  lady.     Ever  would  she  say, 

Good-even,  as  she  passed,  and  with  a  voice 

Gentle  as  theirs  in  heaven  !  "  —  But  now  by  fits 

A  dull  and  dismal  noise  assailed  the  ear, 


364  ITALY. 

A  wail,  a  chant,  louder  and  louder  yet ; 

And  now  a  strange  fantastic  troop  appeared  ! 

Thronging,  they  came  —  as  from  the  shades  below  ; 

All  of  a  ghostly  white  !     "  0,  say  ! "  I  cried, 

"  Do  not  the  living  here  bury  the  dead  ? 

Do  spirits  come  and  fetch  them  ?     What  are  these, 

That  seem  not  of  this  world,  and  mock  the  day ; 

Each  with  a  burning  taper  in  his  hand  1 "  — 

"  It  is  an  ancient  Brotherhood  thou  seest. 

Such  their  apparel.     Through  the  long,  long  line, 

Look  where  thou  wilt,  no  likeness  of  a  man ; 

The  living  masked,  the  dead  alone  uncovered. 

But  mark."  —And,  lying  on  her  funeral  couch, 

Like  one  asleep,  her  eyelids  closed,  her  hands 

Folded  together  on  her  modest  breast, 

As  't  were  her  nightly  posture,  through  the  crowd 

She  came  at  last  —  and  richly,  gayly  clad, 

As  for  a  birth-day  feast !     But  breathes  she  not  ? 

A  glow  is  on  her  cheek — and  her  lips  move  ! 

And  now  a  smile  is  there  —  how  heavenly  sweet ! 

"0,  no  !  "  replied  the  dame,  wiping  her  tears, 

But  with  an  accent  less  of  grief  than  anger, 

u  No,  she  will  never,  never  wake  again  !  " 

Death,  when  we  meet  the  spectre  in  our  walks, 
As  we  did  yesterday  and  shall  to-morrow, 
Soon  grows  familiar  —  like  most  other  things, 
Seen,  not  observed  ;  but  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Changing  his  shape  to  something  new  and  strange 
(And  through  the  world  he  changes  as  in  sport, 
Affect  he  greatness  or  humility), 
Knocks  at  the  heart.     His  form  and  fashion  here 
To  me,  I  do  confess,  reflect  a  gloom, 


A   FUNERAL.  365 

A  sadness  round  ;  yet  one  I  would  not  lose  ; 
Being  in  unison  with  all  things  else 
In  this,  this  land  of  shadows,  where  we  live 
More  in  past  time  than  present,  where  the  ground. 
League  beyond  league,  like  one  great  cemetery, 
Is  covered  o'er  with  mouldering  monuments ; 
And,  let  the  living  wander  where  they  will, 
They  cannot  leave  the  footsteps  of  the  dead. 
Oft,  where  the  burial-rite  follows  so  fast 
The  agony,  oft  coming,  nor  from  far, 
Must  a  fond  father  meet  his  darling  child 
(Him  who  at  parting  climbed  his  knees  and  clung) 
Clay-cold  and  wan,  and  to  the  bearers  cry, 
"  Stand,  I  conjure  ye  !  " 

Seen  thus  destitute, 

What  are  the  greatest  ?     They  must  speak  beyond 
A  thousand  homilies.     When  RAPHAEL  went, 
His  heavenly  face  the  mirror  of  his  mind, 
His  mind  a  temple  for  all  lovely  things 
To  flock  to  and  inhabit  —  when  he  went, 
Wrapt  in  his  sable  cloak,  the  cloak  he  wore, 
To  sleep  beneath  the  venerable  Dome,239 
By  those  attended,  who  in  life  had  loved, 
Had  worshipped,  following  in  his  steps  to  Fame 
('T  was  on  an  April  day,  when  Nature  smiles), 
All  Rome  was  there.     But,  ere  the  march  began, 
Ere  to  receive  their  charge  the  bearers  came, 
Who  had  not  sought  him '?     And  when  all  beheld 
Him,  where  he  lay,  how  changed  from  yesterday, 
Him  in  that  hour  cut  off.  and  at  his  head 
His  last  great  work ;  24°  when,  entering  in,  they  looked 
Now  on  the  dead,  then  on  that  masterpiece,241 
31* 


366  ITALY. 

Now  on  his  face,  lifeless  and  colorless, 
Then  on  those  forms  divine  that  lived  and  breathed, 
And  would  live  on  for  ages  —  all  were  moved  ; 
And  sighs  burst  forth,  and  loudest  lamentations. 


NATIONAL    PREJUDICES. 

"ANOTHER  assassination!  This  venerable  city,"  I  ex 
claimed,  "  what  is  it,  but  as  it  began,  a  nest  of  robbers  and 
murderers?  We  must  away  at  sunrise,  Luigi."  —  But 
before  sunrise  I  had  reflected  a  little,  and  in  the  soberest 
prose.  My  indignation  was  gone  ;  and,  when  Luigi  undrew 
my  curtain,  crying,  "Up,  signor,  up!  The  horses  are  at 
the  gate!"  "Luigi,"  I  replied,  "if  thou  lovest  me,  draw 
the  curtain."  242 

It  would  lessen  very  much  the  severity  with  which  men 
judge  of  each  other,  if  they  would  but  trace  effects  to  their 
causes,  and  observe  the  progress  of  things  in  the  moral  as 
accurately  as  in  the  physical  world.  When  we  condemn 
millions  in  the  mass  as  vindictive  and  sanguinary,  we  should 
remember  that  wherever  justice  is  ill-administered  the 
injured  will  redress  themselves.  Robbery  provokes  to  rob 
bery  ;  murder  to  assassination.  Resentments  become  hered 
itary  ;  and  what  began  in  disorder  ends  as  if  all  hell  had 
broke  loose. 

Laws  create  a  habit  of  self-restraint,  not  only  by  the 
influence  of  fear,  but  by  regulating  in  its  exercise  the  pas 
sion  of  revenge.  If  they  overawe  the  bad  by  the  prospect 
of  a  punishment  certain  and  well-defined,  they  console  the 
injured  by  the  infliction  of  that  punishment ;  and,  as  the 
infliction  is  a  public  act,  it  excites  and  entails  no  enmity. 


NATIONAL   PREJUDICES.  867 

The  laws  are  offended ;  and  the  community  for  its  own  sake 
pursues  and  overtakes  the  offender, —  often  without  the  con 
currence  of  the  sufferer,  sometimes  against  his  wishes.243 

Now,  those  who  were  not  born,  like  ourselves,  to  such 
advantages,  we  should,  surely,  rather  pity  than  hate;  and 
when,  at  length,  they  venture  to  turn  against  their  rulers,244 
we  should  lament,  not  wonder  at,  their  excesses ;  remember 
ing  that  nations  are  naturally  patient  and  long-suffering, 
and  seldom  rise  in  rebellion  till  they  are  so  degraded  by  a 
bad  government  as  to  be  almost  incapable  of  a  good  one. 

"Hate  them,  perhaps,"  you  may  say,  u  we  should  not; 
but  despise  them  we  must,  if  enslaved,  like  the  people  of 
ROME,  in  mind  as  well  as  body  ;  if  their  religion  be  a  gross 
and  barbarous  superstition."-  — I  respect  knowledge  ;  but  I 
do  not  despise  ignorance.  They  think  only  as  their  fathers 
thought,  worship  as  they  worshipped.  They  do  no  more ; 
and,  if  ours  had  not  burst  their  bondage,  braving  impris 
onment  and  death,  might  not  we  at  this  very  moment  have 
been  exhibiting,  in  our  streets  and  our  churches,  the  same 
processions,  ceremonials,  and  mortifications  ? 

Nor  should  wre  require  from  those  who  are  in  an  earlier 
stage  of  society  what  belongs  to  a  later.  They  are  only 
where  we  once  were  ;  and  why  hold  them  in  derision  ?  It 
is  their  business  to  cultivate  the  inferior  arts  before  they 
think  of  the  more  refined ;  and  in  many  of  the  last  what 
are  we  as  a  nation,  when  compared  to  others  that  have 
passed  away  ?  Unfortunately  it  is  too  much  the  practice 
of  governments  to  nurse  and  keep  alive  in  the  governed 
their  national  prejudices.  It  withdraws  their  attention  from 
what  is  passing  at  home,  and  makes  them  better  tools  in  the 
hands  of  ambition.  Hence,  next-door  neighbors  are  held 
up  to  us  from  our  childhood  as  natural  enemies  ;  and  we 
are  urged  on  like  curs  to  worry  each  other.245 


368  ITALY. 

In  like  manner  we  should  learn  to  be  just  to  individuals. 
Who  can  say,  "  In  such  circumstances  I  should  have  done 
otherwise  ?  "  Who,  did  he  but  reflect  by  what  slow  grada 
tions,  often  by  how  many  strange  concurrences,  we  are 
led  astray :  with  how  much  reluctance,  how  much  agony, 
how  many  efforts  to  escape,  how  many  self-accusations,  how 
many  sighs,  how  many  tears, —  who,  did  he  but  reflect  for 
a  moment,  would  have  the  heart  to  cast  a  stone  ?  Happily 
these  things  are  known  to  Him  from  whom  no  secrets  are 
hidden ;  and  let  us  rest  in  the  assurance  that  His  judgments 
are  not  as  ours  are.246 


THE  CAMPAGNA   OF  HOME. 

HAVE  none  appeared  as  tillers  of  the  ground,247 
None  since  they  went  —  as  though  it  still  were  theirs, 
And  they  might  come  and  claim  their  own  again  ? 
Was  the  last  plough  a  Roman's  ? 

From  this  seat,248 

Sacred  for  ages,  whence,  as  VIRGIL  sings, 
The  Queen  of  Heaven,  alighting  from  the  sky, 
Looked  down  and  saw  the  armies  in  array,249 
Let  us  contemplate;  and,  where  dreams  from  Jove 
Descended  on  the  sleeper,  where,  perhaps, 
Some  inspirations  may  be  lingering  still, 
Some  glimmerings  of  the  future  or  the  past, 
Let  us  await  their  influence ;  silently 
Revolving,  as  we  rest  on  the  green  turf, 
The  changes  from  that  hour  when  he  from  TROY 
Came  up  the  TIBER  ;  when  refulgent  shields, 
No  strangers  to  the  iron-hail  of  war, 


THE  CAMPAGNA   OF  ROME.  369 

Streamed  far  and  wide,  and  dashing  oars  were  heard 
Among  those  woods  where  Silvia's  stag  was  lying, 
His  antlers  gay  with  flowers  ;  among  those  woods 
Where  by  the  moon,  that  saw  and  yet  withdrew  not, 
Two  were  so  soon  to  wander  and  be  slain,250 
Two  lovely  in  their  lives,  nor  in  their  death 
Divided. 

Then,  and  hence  to  be  discerned, 
How  many  realms,  pastoral  and  warlike,  lay 
Along  this  plain,  each  with  its  schemes  of  power, 
Its  little  rivalships  ! 251  What  various  turns 
Of  fortune  there ;  what  moving  accidents 
From  ambuscade  and  open  violence  ! 
Mingling,  the  sounds  came  up  ;  and  hence  how  oft 
We  might  have  caught  among  the  trees  below, 
Glittering  with  helm  and  shield,  the  men  of  TIBER  ;252 
Or  in  Greek  vesture,  Greek  their  origin, 
Some  embassy,  ascending  to  PR^ENESTE  ;  ^ 
How  oft  descried,  without  thy  gates,  ARiciA,2*4 
Entering  the  solemn  grove  for  sacrifice, 
Senate  and  people  !  — each  a  busy  hive, 
Glowing  with  life  ! 

But  all  ere  long  are  lost 
In  one.    We  look,  and  where  the  river  rolls 
Southward  its  shining  labyrinth,  in  her  strength 
A  city,  girt  with  battlements  and  towers, 
On  seven  small  hills  is  rising.     Round  about, 
At  rural  work,  the  citizens  are  seen, 
None  unemployed ;  the  noblest  of  them  all 
Binding  their  sheaves  or  on  their  threshing-floors, 
As  though  they  had  not  conquered.     Everywhere 
Some  trace  of  valor  or  heroic  toil  ! 


370  ITALY. 

Here  is  the  sacred  field  of  the  HoRATii.255 

There  are  the  QUINTIAN  meadows.256   Here  the  hill w 

How  holy,  where  a  generous  people,  twice, 

Twice  going  forth,  in  terrible  anger  sate 

Armed ;  and,  their  wrongs  redressed,  at  once  gave  way, 

Helmet  and  shield,  and  sword  and  spear  thrown  down, 

And  every  hand  uplifted,  every  heart 

Poured  out  in  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Once  again 

We  look  ;  and.  lo  !  the  sea  is  white  with  sails 
Innumerable,  wafting  to  the  shore 
Treasures  untold ;  the  vale,  the  promontories, 
A  dream  of  glory ;  temples,  palaces, 
Called  up  as  by  enchantment ;  aqueducts 
Among  the  groves  and  glades  rolling  along 
Rivers,  on  many  an  arch  high  overhead ; 
And  in  the  centre,  like  a  burning  sun, 
The  Imperial  City  !     They  have  now  subdued 
All  nations.     But  where  they  who  led  them  forth ; 
Who,  when  at  length  released  by  victory 
(Buckler  and  spear  hung  up  —  but  not  to  rust), 
Held  poverty  no  evil,  no  reproach, 
Living  on  little  with  a  cheerful  mind, 
The  DECII,  the  FABRICII  ?     Where  the  spade, 
And  reaping-hook,  among  their  household-things 
Duly  transmitted  ?     In  the  hands  of  men 
Mac[e  captive :  while  the  master  and  his  guests, 
Reclining,  quaff  in  gold,  and  roses  swim, 
Summer  and  winter,  through  the  circling  year, 
On  their  Falernian  —  in  the  hands  of  men 
Dragged  into  slavery  with  how  many  more 
Spared  but  to  die,  a  public  spectacle, 


THE    CAMPAGNA   OF   ROME.  371 

In  combat  with  each  other,  and  required 
To  fall  with  grace,  with  dignity  —  to  sink 
While  life  is  gushing,  and  the  plaudits  ring 
Faint  and  yet  fainter  on  their  failing  ear, 
As  models  for  the  sculptor. 

But  their  days, 

Their  hours  are  numbered.     Hark  !  a  yell,  a  shriek, 
A  barbarous  outcry,  loud  and  louder  yet, 
That  echoes  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea  ! 
And  mark,  beneath  us,  like  a  bursting  cloud, 
The  battle  moving  onward  !     Had  they  slain 
All,  that  the  earth  should  from  her  womb  bring  forth 
New  nations  to  destroy  them  ?    From  the  depth 
Of  forests,  from  what  none  had  dared  explore, 
Regions  of  thrilling  ice.  as  though  in  ice 
Engendered,  multiplied,  they  pour  along. 
Shaggy  and  huge  !    Host  after  host,  they  come ; 
The  Goth,  the  Vandal ;  and  again  the  Goth ! 

Once  more  we  look,  and  all  is  still  as  night, 
All  desolate  !    Groves,  temples,  palaces, 
Swept  from  the  sight ;  and  nothing  visible, 
Amid  the  sulphurous  vapors  that  exhale 
As  from  a  land  accurst,  save  here  and  there 
An  empty  tomb,  a  fragment  like  the  limb 
Of  some  dismembered  giant.     In  the  midst 
A  city  stands,  her  domes  and  turrets  crowned 
With  many  a  cross  ;  but  they,  that  issue  forth, 
Wander  like  strangers 25S  who  had  built  among 
The  mighty  ruins,  silent,  spiritless  ; 
And  on  the  road,  where  once  we  might  have  met 
CAESAR  and  CATO  and  men  more  than  kings, 
We  meet,  none  else,  the  pilgrim  and  the  beggar. 


372  ITALY. 


THE  ROMAN  PONTIFFS. 

THOSE  ancient  men,  what  were  they,  who  achieved 

A  sway  beyond  the  greatest  conquerors  ; 

Setting  their  feet  upon  the  necks  of  kings, 

And,  through  the  world,  subduing,  chaining  down 

The  free,  immortal  spirit  ?     Were  they  not 

Mighty  magicians  ?    Theirs  a  wondrous  spell,    . 

Where  true  and  false  were  with  infernal  art 

Close-interwoven  ;  where  together  met 

Blessings  and  curses,  threats  and  promises ; 

And  with  the  terrors  of  Futurity 

Mingled  whate'er  enchants  and  fascinates, 

Music  and  painting,  sculpture,  rhetoric,259 

And  dazzling  light  and  darkness  visible, 2ei° 

And  architectural  pomp,  such  as  none  else  ! 

What  in  his  day  the  SYRACUSAN  sought, 

Another  world  to  plant  his  engines  on, 

They  had ;  and,  having  it,  like  gods,  not  men, 

Moved  this  world  at  their  pleasure.201  Ere  they  came; 

Their  shadows,  stretching  far  and  wTide  were  known ; 

And  two,  that  looked  beyond  the  visible  sphere, 

Gave  notice  of  their  coming  —  he  who  saw 

The  Apocalypse  ;  and  he  of  elder  time, 

Who  in  an  awful  vision  of  the  night 

Saw  the  Four  Kingdoms.     Distant  as  they  were, 

Those  holy  men,  well  might  they  faint  with  fear  !  m 


CAIUS  CESTIUS.  373 


CAIUS  CESTIUS. 

WHEN  I  am  inclined  to  be  serious,  I  love  to  wander  up 
and  down  before  the  tomb  of  CAIUS  CESTIUS.  The  Prot 
estant  burial-ground  is  there  ;  and  most  of  the  little  monu 
ments  are  erected  to  the  young ;  young  men  of  promise,  cut 
off  when  on  their  travels,  full  of  enthusiasm,  full  of  enjoy 
ment;  brides,  in  the  bloom  of  their  beauty,  on  their  first 
journey ;  or  children  borne  from  home  in  search  of  health. 
This  stone  was  placed  by  his  fellow-travellers,  young  as 
himself,  who  will  return  to  the  house  of  his  parents  without 
him:  that,  by  a  husband  or  a  father,  now  in  his  native 
country.  His  heart  is  buried  in  that  grave. 

It  is  a  quiet  and  sheltered  nook,  covered  in  the  winter 
with  violets ;  and  the  Pyramid,  that  overshadows  it,  gives  it 
a  classical  and  singularly  solemn  air.  You  feel  an  interest 
there,  a  sympathy  you  were  not  prepared  for.  You  are 
yourself  in  a  foreign  land ;  and  they  are  for  the  most  part 
your  countrymen.  They  call  upon  you  in  your  mother- 
tongue  —  in  English  —  in  words  unknown  to  a  native, 
known  only  to  yourself;  and  the  tomb  of  CESTIUS,  that  old 
majestic  pile,  has  this  also  in  common  with  them.  It  is 
itself  a  stranger,  among  strangers.  It  has  stood  there  till 
the  language  spoken  round  about  it  has  changed ;  and  the 
shepherd,  born  at  the  foot,  can  read  its  inscription  no  longer. 
32 


374  ITALY. 


THE   NUN. 

'T  is  over ;  and  her  lovely  cheek  is  now 
On  her  hard  pillow  —  there,  alas  !  to  be 
Nightly,  through  many  and  many  a  dreary  hour, 
Wan,  often  wet  with  tears,  and  (ere  at  length 
Her  place  is  empty,  and  another  comes) 
In  anguish,  in  the  ghastliness  of  death ; 
Hers  never  more  to  leave  those  mournful  walls, 
Even  on  her  bier. 

'T  is  over ;  and  the  rite, 
With  all  its  pomp  and  harmony,  is  now 
Floating  before  her.     She  arose  at  home, . 
To  be  the  show,  the  idol  of  the  day ; 
Her  vesture  gorgeous,  and  her  starry  head  — 
No  rocket,  bursting  in  the  midnight-sky, 
So  dazzling.     When  to-morrow  she  awakes, 
She  will  awake  as  though  she  still  was  there, 
Still  in  her  father's  house  ;  and,  lo  !  a  cell 
Narrow  and  dark,  naught  through  the  gloom  discerned, 
Naught  save  the  crucifix,  the  rosary, 
And  the  gray  habit  lying  by  to  shroud 
Her  beauty  and  grace. 

When  on  her  knees  she  fell, 
Entering  the  solemn  place  of  consecration, 
And  from  the  latticed  gallery  came  a  chant 
Of  psalms,  most  saint-like,  most  angelical, 
Verse  after  verse  sung  out  how  holily, 
The  strain  returning,  and  still,  still  returning, 
Methought  it  acted  like  a  spell  upon  her, 
And  she  was  casting  off  her  earthly  dross  ; 


THE   NUN.  375 

Yet  was  it  sad  as  sweet,  and,  ere  it  closed, 

Came  like  a  dirge.     When  her  fair  head  was  shorn, 

And  the  long  tresses  in  her  hands  were  laid, 

That  she  might  fling  them  from  her,  saying,  "  Thus, 

Thus  I  renounce  the  world  and  worldly  things  !  "203 

When,  as  she  stood,  her  bridal  ornaments 

Were,  one  by  one,  removed,  even  to  the  last, 

That  she  might  say,  flinging  them  from  her,  "  Thus, 

Thus  I  renounce  the  world!  "  when  all  was  changed, 

And,  as  a  nun,  in  homeliest  guise  she  knelt, 

Distinguished  only  by  the  crown  she  wore, 

Her  crown  of  lilies  as  the  spouse  of  Christ, 

WTell  might  her  strength  forsake  her,  and  her  knees 

Fail  in  that  hour  !     Well  might  the  holy  man, 

He,  at  whose  feet  she  knelt,  give  as  by  stealth 

('T  was  in  her  utmost  need ;  nor,  while  she  lives,204 

Will  it  go  from  her,  fleeting  as  it  was) 

That  faint  but  fatherly  smile,  that  smile  of  love 

And  pity  ! 

Like  a  dream  the  whole  is  fled ; 
And  they,  that  came  in  idleness  to  gaze 
Upon  the  victim  dressed  for  sacrifice, 
Are  mingling  in  the  world ;  thou  in  thy  cell 
Forgot,  TERESA.     Yet,  among  them  all, 
None  were  so  formed  to  love  and  to  be  loved, 
None  to  delight,  adorn ;  and  on  thee  now 
A  curtain,  blacker  than  the  night,  is  dropped 
Forever  !     In  thy  gentle  bosom  sleep 
Feelings,  affections,  destined  now  to  die, 
To  wither  like  the  blossom  in  the  bud,  — 
Those  of  a  wife,  a  mother ;  leaving  there 
A  cheerless  void,  a  chill  as  of  the  grave, 


376  ITALY. 

A  languor  and  a  lethargy  of  soul, 

Death-like,  and  gathering  more  and  more,  till  Death 

Comes  to  release  thee.     Ah  !   what  now  to  thee, 

What  now  to  thee  the  treasure  of  thy  youth  ? 

As  nothing ! 

But  thou  canst  not  yet  reflect 
Calmly ;  so  many  things,  strange  and  perverse, 
That  meet,  recoil,  and  go  but  to  return, 
The  monstrous  birth  of  one  eventful  day, 
Troubling  thy  spirit  —  from  the  first  at  dawn, 
The  rich  arraying  for  the  nuptial  feast, 
To  the  black  pall,  the  requiem. 1>fi3     All  in  turn 
Revisit  thee,  and  round  thy  lowly  bed 
Hover,  uncalled.     Thy  young  and  innocent  heart, 
How  is  it  beating  ?     Has  it  no  regrets  1 
Discoverest  thou  no  weakness  lurking  there  ? 
But  thine  exhausted  frame  has  sunk  to  rest. 
Peace  to  thy  slumbers  ! 


THE  FIRE-FLY. 

THERE  is  an  insect,  that,  when  evening  comes, 

Small  though  he  be  and  scarce  distinguishable, 

Like  Evening  clad  in  soberest  livery, 

Unsheathes  his  wings  ^  and  through  the  woods  and  glades 

Scatters  a  marvellous  splendor.     On  he  wheels, 

Blazing  by  fits  as  from  excess  of  joy,207 

Each  gush  of  light  a  gush  of  ecstasy ; 

Nor  unaccompanied  ;  thousands  that  fling 

A  radiance  all  their  own.  not  of  the  day, 


THE    FIRE-FLY.  377 

Thousands  as  bright  as  he.  from  dusk  till  dawn. 
Soaring,  descending. 

In  the  mother's  lap 

Well  may  the  child  put  forth  his  little  hands, 
Singing  the  nursery-song  he  learnt  so  soon  ; 2CS 
And  the  young  nymph,  preparing  for  the  dance269 
By  brook  or  fountain-side,  in  many  a  braid 
Wreathing  her  golden  hair,  well  may  she  cry, 
"  Come  hither  ;  and  the  shepherds,  gathering  round, 
Shall  say,  Floretta  emulates  the  Night, 
Spangling  her  head  with  stars." 

Oft  have  I  met 

This  shining  race,  when  in  the  TUSCULAN  groves 
My  path  no  longer  glimmered  ;  oft  among 
Those  trees,  religious  once  and  always  green,27a 
That  still  dream  out  their  stories  of  old  ROME 
Over  the  ALB  AN  lake  ;  oft  met  and  hailed, 
Where  the  precipitate  ANIO  thunders  down, 
And  through  the  surging  mist  a  poet's  house 
(So  some  aver,  and  who  would  not  believe  ?)  m 

Reveals  itself. Yet  cannot  I  forget 

Him,  who  rejoiced  me  in  those  walks  at  eve,272 
My  earliest,  pleasantest ;  who  dwells  unseen, 
And  in  our  northern  clime,  when  all  is  still, 
Nightly  keeps  watch,  nightly  in  bush  or  brake 
His  lonely  lamp  rekindling.     Unlike  theirs, 
His,  if  less  dazzling,  through  the  darkness  knows 
No  intermission  ;  sending  forth  its  ray 
Through  the  green  leaves,  a  ray  serene  and  clear 
As  Virtue's  own. 
32* 


3T8  ITALY. 


FOREIGN  TRAVEL. 

IT  was  in  a  splenetic  humor  that  I  sat  me  down  to  my 
scanty  fare  at  TERRACINA  ;  and  how  long  I  should  have 
contemplated  the  lean  thrushes  in  array  before  me  I  cannot 
say,  if  a  cloud  of  smoke,  that  drew  the  tears  into  my  eyes, 
had  not  burst  from  the  green  and  leafy  boughs  on  the 
hearth-stone.     "Why,"  I  exclaimed,  starting  up  from  the 
table,   "  why  did  I  leave  my  own  chimney-corner?  —  But 
am  I  not  on  the  road  to  BRUNDUSIUM  ?    And  are  not  these 
the  very  calamities  that  befell  HORACE  and  VIRGIL,  and 
MAECENAS,  and  PLOTIUS,  and  VARIUS  ?     HORACE  laughed 
at  them. — Then  why  should  not  I?     HORACE  resolved  to 
turn  them  to  account ;  and  VIRGIL  —  cannot  we  hear  him 
observing   that  to  remember  them  will,  by  and  by,  be  a 
pleasure?"     My  soliloqtTy  reconciled  me  at  once  to  my 
fate ;  and  when  for  the  twentieth  time  I  had  looked  through 
the  window  on  a  sea  sparkling  with  innumerable  brilliants, 
a  sea  on  which  the  heroes  of  the  Odyssey  and  the  .ZEneid 
had   sailed,  I  sat   down  as  to  a  splendid   banquet.     My 
thrushes  had  the  flavor  of  ortolans ;  and  I  ate  with  an 
appetite  I  had  not  known  before.     "Who,"  I  cried,  as  I 
poured  out  my  last  glass  of  Falernian278  (for  Falernian  it 
was  said  to  be,  and  in  my  eyes  it  ran  bright  and  clear  as 
a  topaz-stone),  "who  would  remain  at  home,  could  he  do 
otherwise  ?    Who  would  submit  to  tread  'that  dull  but  daily 
round,  his  hours  forgotten  as  soon  as  spent?"  and,  open 
ing  my  journal-book  and  dipping  my  pen  in  my  ink-horn,  I 
determined,  as  far  as  I  could,  to  justify  myself  and  my 
countrymen  in  wandering  over  the  face  of  the  earth.     "It 
may  serve  me,"  said  I,  "as  a  remedy  in  some  future  fit  of 
the  spleen." 


FOREIGN     TRAVEL. 


Ours  is  a  nation  of  travellers  ;  ~H  and  no  \vonder,  -when 
the  elements,  air,  water  and  fire,  attend  at  our  bidding,  to 
transport  us  from  shore  to  shore  ;  when  the  ship  rushes  into 
the  deep,  her  track  the  foam  as  of  some  mighty  torrent ; 
and,  in  three  hours,  or  less,  we  stand  gazing  and  gazed  at 
among  a  foreign  people.  None  want  an  excuse.  If  rich, 
they  go  to  enjoy  ;  if  poor,  to  retrench  ;  if  sick,  to  recover; 
if  studious,  to  learn  ;  if  learned,  to  relax  from  their  studies. 
But,  whatever  they  may  say  and  whatever  they  may  believe, 
they  go  for  the  most  part  on  the  same  errand ;  nor  will 
those  'who  reflect  think  that  errand  an  idle  one. 

Almost  all  men  are  over-anxious.  No  sooner  do  they 
enter  the  world  than  they  lose  that  taste  for  natural  and 
simple  pleasures,  so  remarkable  in  early  life.  Every  hour 
do  they  ask  themselves  what  progress  they  have  made  in  the 
pursuit  of  wealth  or  honor  ;  and  on  they  go  as  their  fathers 
went  before  them,  till,  weary  and  sick  at  heart,  they  look 
back  with  a  sigh  of  regret  to  the  golden  time  of  their  child 
hood. 

Now  travel,  and  foreign  travel  more  particularly,  restores 
to  us  in  a  great  degree  what  we  have  lost.  When  the 
anchor  is  heaved,  we  double  down  the  leaf ;  and  for  a  while 
at  least  all  is  over.  The  old  cares  are  left  clustering  round 
the  old  objects ;  and,  at  every  step,  as  we  proceed,  the  slight 
est  circumstance  amuses  and  interests.  All  is  new  and 
strange.273  We  surrender  ourselves,  and  feel  once  again  as 
children.  Like  them,  we  enjoy  eagerly ;  like  them,  when 
we  fret  wTe  fret  only  for  the  moment ;  and  here,  indeed,  the 
resemblance  is  very  remarkable  ;  for,  if  a  journey  has  its 
pains  as  well  as  its  pleasures  (and  there  is  nothing  unmixed 


380  ITALY. 

in  this  world)  the  pains  are  no  sooner  over  than  they  are 
forgotten,  while  the  pleasures  live  long  in  the  memory. 

Nor  is  it  surely  without  another  advantage.  If  life  be 
short,  not  so  to  many  of  us  are  its  days  and  its  hours. 
When  the  blood  slumbers  in  the  veins,  how  often  do  we 
wish  that  the  earth  would  turn  faster  on  its  axis,  that  the 
sun  would  rise  and  set  before  it  does  !  and,  to  escape  from 
the  weight  of  time,  how  many  follies,  how  many  crimes,  are 
committed  !  Men  rush  on  danger,  and  even  on  death. 
Intrigue,  play,  foreign  and  domestic  broil,  such  are  their 
resources ;  and,  when  these  things  fail,  they  destroy  them 
selves. 

Now,  in  travelling  we  multiply  events,  and  innocently. 
We  set  out,  as  it  were,  on  our  adventures ;  and  many  are 
those  that  occur  to  us,  morning,  noon  and  night.  The  day 
we  come  to  a  place  which  we  have  long  heard  and  read  of, 
and  in  ITALY  we  do  so  continually,  it  is  an  era  in  our  lives ; 
and  from  that  moment  the  very  name  calls  up  a  picture. 
How  delightfully,  too,  does  the  knowledge  flow  in  upon  us, 
and  how  fast ! m  Would  he  who  sat  in  a  corner  of  his 
library,  poring  over  books  and  maps,  learn  more  or  so  much 
in  the  time  as  he  who,  with  his  eyes  and  his  heart  open,  is 
receiving  impressions  all  day  long  from  the  things  them 
selves?-77  How  accurately  do  they  arrange  themselves  in 
our  memory,  towns,  rivers,  mountains ;  and  in  what  living 
colors  do  we  recall  the  dresses,  manners  and  customs,  of  the 
people  !  Our  sight  is  the  noblest  of  all  our  senses.  "It 
fills  the  mind  with  the  most  ideas,  converses  with  its  objects 
at  the  greatest  distance,  and  continues  longest  in  action 
without  being  tired."  Our  sight  is  on  the  alert  when  we 
travel ;  and  its  exercise  is  then  so  delightful  that  we  forget 
the  profit  in  the  pleasure. 


FOREIGN    TRAVEL.  381 

Like  a  river,  that  gathers,  that  refines  as  it  runs,  like  a 
spring  that  takes  its  course  through  some  rich  vein  of  min 
eral,  we  improve  and  imperceptibly  —  nor  in  the  head  only, 
but  in  the  heart.  Our  prejudices  leave  us,  one  by  one. 
Seas  and  mountains  are  no  longer  our  boundaries.  We 
learn  to  love,  and  esteem,  and  admire  beyond  them.  Our 
benevolence  extends  itself  with  our  knowledge.  And  must 
we  not.  return  better  citizens  than  we  went  ?  For,  the  more 
we  become  acquainted  with  the  institutions  of  other  coun 
tries,  the  more  highly  must  we  value  our  own. 


I  threw  down  my  pen  in  triumph.  "  The  question,"  said 
I,  "  is  set  to  rest  forever.  And  yet — " 

"  And  yet—  "  I  must  still  say.278  The  WISEST  OF  MEN 
seldom  went  out  of  the  walls  of  ATHENS  ;  and  for  that  worst 
of  evils,  that  sickness  of  the  soul,  to  which  we  are  most 
liable  when  most  at  our  ease,  is  there  not,  after  all,  a  surer 
and  yet  pleasanter  remedy,  a  remedy  for  which  we  have 
only  to  cross  the  threshold  ?  A  PIEDMONTESE  nobleman, 
into  whose  company  I  fell  at  TURIN,  had  not  long  before 
experienced  its  efficacy ;  and  his  story  he  told  me  without 
reserve. 

"I  was  weary  of  life,"  said  he,  "  and,  after  a  day  such 
as  few  have  known  and  none  would  wish  to  remember,  was 
hurrying  along  the  street  to  the  river,  when  I  felt  a  sudden 
check.  I  turned  and  beheld  a  little  boy,  who  had  caught 
the  skirt  of  my  cloak  in  his  anxiety  to  solicit  my  notice. 
His  look  and  manner  were  irresistible.  Not  less  so  wras  the 
lesson  he  had  learnt.  '  There  are  six  of  us,  and  we  are 
dying  for  want  of  food.'  — '  Why  should  I  not,'  said  I  to 
myself,  '  relieve  this  wretched  family  ?  I  have  the  means ; 


382  ITALY. 


and  it  will  not  delay  me  many  minutes.  But  what  if  it 
does  ?  '  The  scene  of  misery  he  conducted  me  to  I  cannot 
describe.  I  threw  them  my  purse  ;  and  their  burst  of 
gratitude  overcame  me.  It  filled  my  eyes  .  .  it  went  as  a 
cordial  to  my  heart.  '  I  will  call  again  to-morrow,'  I  cried. 
*  Fool  that  I  was,  to  think  of  leaving  a  world,  where  such 
pleasure  was  to  be  had,  and  so  cheaply  !  '  ; 


THE    FOUNTAIN. 

IT  was  a  well 

Of  whitest  marble,  white  as  from  the  quarry ; 
And  richly  wrought  with  many  a  high  relief, 
Greek  sculpture  —  in  some  earlier  day  perhaps 
A  tomb,  and  honored  with  a  hero's  ashes. 
The  water  from  the  rock  filled  and  o'erflowed  ; 
Then  dashed  away,  playing  the  prodigal, 
And  soon  was  lost  —  stealing  unseen,  unheard, 
Through  the  long  grass,  and  round  the  twisted  roots 
.  Of  aged  trees  ;  discovering  where  it  ran 
By  the  fresh  verdure.     Overcome  with  heat, 
I  threw  me  down  ;  admiring,  as  I  lay, 
That  shady  nook,  a  singing  place  for  birds, 
That  grove  so  intricate,  so  full  of  flowers, 
More  than  enough  to  please  a  child  a-Maying. 

The  sun  had  set,  a  distant  convent-bell 
Ringing  the  Angelus  ;  and  now  approached 
The  hour  for  stir  and  village-gossip  there, 
The  hour  REBEKAII  came,  when  from  the  well 
She  drew  with  such  alacrity  to  serve 
The  stranger  and  his  camels.     Soon  I  heard 


BANDITTI.  383 

Footsteps  ;  and,  lo  !  descending  by  a  path 
Trodden  for  ages,  many  a  nymph  appeared, 
Appeared  and  vanished,  bearing  on  her  head 
Her  earthen  pitcher.     It  called  up  the  day 
ULYSSES  landed  there  ;  and  long  I  gazed, 
Like  one  awaking  in  a  distant  time.279 

At  length  there  came  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 
Her  little  brother  dancing  down  before  her ; 
And  ever  as  he  spoke,  which  he  did  ever, 
Turning  and  looking  up  in  warmth  of  heart 
And  brotherly  affection.     Stopping  there, 
She  joined  her  rosy  hands,  and,  filling  them 
With  the  pure  element,  gave  him  to  drink  ; 
And,  while  he  quenched  his  thirst,  standing  on  tiptoe, 
Looked  down  upon  him  with  a  sister's  smile, 
Nor  stirred  till  he  had  done,  fixed  as  a  statue. 

Then  hadst  thou  seen  them  as  they  stood,  CANOVA, 
Thou  hadst  endowed  them  with  immortal  youth ; 
Arid  they  had  evermore  lived  undivided, 
Winning  all  hearts  —  of  all  thy  works  the  fairest. 


BANDITTI. 

'T  is  a  wild  life,  fearful  and  full  of  change, 
The  mountain-robber's.     On  the  watch  he  lies, 
Levelling  his  carbine  at  the  passenger ; 
And,  when  his  work  is  done,  he  dares  not  sleep. 

Time  was,  the  trade  was  nobler,  if  not  honest ; 
When  they  that  robbed  were  men  of  better  faith 26 
Than  kings  or  pontiffs  ;  when,  such  reverence 
The  poet  drew  among  the  woods  and  wilds, 


384  ITALY. 

A  voice  was  heard,  that  never  bade  to  spare,281 
Crying  aloud,  "  Hence  to  the  distant  hills ! 
TASSO  approaches  ;  he,  whose  song  beguiles 
The  day  of  half  its  hours  ;  whose  sorcery- 
Dazzles  the  sense,  turning  our  forest-glades 
To  lists  that  blaze  with  gorgeous  armory, 
Our  niountain-caves  to  regal  palaces. 
Hence,  nor  descend  till  he  and  his  are  gone. 
Let  him  fear  nothing."  —  When  along  the  shore, 
And  by  the  path  that,  wandering  on  its  way, 
Leads  through  the  fatal  grove  where  TULLY  fell 
(Gray  and  o'ergrown,  an  ancient  tomb  is  there), 
He  came  and  they  withdrew,  they  were  a  race 
Careless  of  life  in  others  and  themselves, 
For  they  had  learnt  their  lesson  in  a  camp  ; 
But  not  ungenerous.     'T  is  no  longer  so. 
Now  crafty,  cruel,  torturing  ere  they  slay 
The  unhappy  captive,  and  with  bitter  jests 
Mocking  misfortune  ;  vain,  fantastical, 
Wearing  whatever  glitters  in  the  spoil ; 
And  most  devout,  though,  when  they  kneel  and  pray, 
With  every  bead  they  could  recount  a  murder  j 
As  by  a  spell  they  start  up  in  array,3** 
As  by  a  spell  they  vanish  —  theirs  a  band, 
Not  as  elsewhere  of  outlaws,  but  of  such 
As  sow  and  reap,  and  at  the  cottage-door 
Sit  to  receive,  return  the  traveller's  greeting  • 
Now  in  the  garb  of  peace,  now  silently 
Arming  and  issuing  forth,  led  on  by  men 
Whose  names  on  innocent  lips  are  words  of  fear, 
Whose  lives  have  long  been  forfeit.  —  Some  there  are 
That,  ere  they  rise  to  this  bad  eminence, 
Lurk,  night  and  day,  the  plague-spot  visible, 


BANDITTI.  385 

The  guilt  that  says.  Beware  ;  and  mark  we  now 
Him,  where  he  lies,  who  couches  for  his  prey 
At  the  bridge-foot  in  some  dark  cavity 
Scooped  by  the  waters,  or  some  gaping  tomb, 
Nameless  and  tenantless,  whence  the  red  fox 
Slunk  as  he  entered. 

There  he  broods,  in  spleen 
Gnawing  his  beard  ;  his  rough  and  sinewy  frame 
O'erwritten  with  the  story  of  his  life : 
On  his  wan  cheek  a  sabre-cut,  well  earned 
In  foreign  warfare  ;  on  liis  breast  the  brand 
Indelible,  burnt  in  when  to  the  port 
He  clanked  his  chain,  among  a  hundred  more 
Dragged  ignominiously  ;  on  every  limb 
Memorials  of  his  glory  and  his  shame, 
Stripes  of  the  lash  and  honorable  scars, 
And  channels  here  and  there  worn  to  the  bone 
By  galling  fetters. 

He  comes  slowly  forth, 
Unkennelling,  and  up  that  savage  dell 
Anxiously  looks  ;  his  cruise,  an  ample  gourd 
(Duly  replenished  from  the  vintner's  cask), 
Slung  from  his  shoulder  ;  in  his  breadth  of  belt 
Two  pistols  and  a  dagger  yet  unclearised, 
A  parchment  scrawled  with  uncouth  characters, 
And  a  small  vial,  his  last  remedy, 
His  cure,  when  all  things  fail. 

No  noise  is  heard, 

Save  when  the  rugged  bear  and  the  gaunt  wolf 
Howl  in  the  upper  region,  or  a  fish 
Leaps  in  the  gulf  beneath.     But  now  he  kneels ; 
And  (like  a  scout,  when  listening  to  the  tramp 
33 


386  ITALY. 

Of  horse  or  foot)  lays  his  experienced  ear 
Close  to  the  ground,  then  rises  and  explores, 
Then  kneels  again,  and,  his  short  rifle-gun 
Against  his  cheek,  waits  patiently. 

•  Two  monks, 

Portly,  gray-headed,  on  their  gallant  steeds, 
Descend  where  yet  a  mouldering  cross  o'erhangs 
The  grave  of  one  that  from  the  precipice 
Fell  in  an  evil  hour.     Their  bridle-bells 
Ring  merrily ;  and  many  a  loud,  long  laugh 
Reechoes  ;  but  at  once  the  sounds  are  lost. 
Unconscious  of  the  good  in  store  below, 
The  holy  fathers  have  turned  off,  and  now 
Cross  the  brown  heath,  ere  long  to  wag  their  beards 
Before  my  lady-abbess,  and  discuss 
Things  only  known  to  the  devout  and  pure 
O'er  her  spiced  bowl  —  then  shrive  the  sisterhood, 
Sitting  by  turns  with  an  inclining  ear 
In  the  confessional. 

He  moves  his  lips 

As  with  a  curse  —  then  paces  up  and  down, 
Now  fast,  now  slow,  brooding  and  muttering  on ; 
Gloomy  alike  to  him  future  and  past. 

But,  hark  !  the  nimble  tread  of  numerous  feet ! 
5T  is  but  a  dappled  herd,  come  down  to  slake 
Their  thirst  in  the  cool  wave. 

He  .turns  and  aims  ; 

Then  checks  himself,  unwilling  to  disturb 
The  sleeping  echoes.  —  Once  again  he  earths  ; 
Slipping  away  to  house  with  them  beneath, 
His  old  companions  in  that  hiding-place, 
The  bat,  the  toad,  the  blind- worm,  and  the  newt ; 


AN   ADVENTURE.  387 

And,  hark  !  a  footstep,  firm  and  confident, 
As  of  a  man  in  haste.     Nearer  it  draws  ; 
And  now  is  at  the  entrance  of  the  den. 
Ha  !  ?t  is  a  comrade,  sent  to  gather  in 
The  band  for  some  great  enterprise. 

Who  wants 

A  sequel,  may  read  on.     The  unvarnished  tale, 
That  follows,  will  supply  the  place  of  one. 
;T  was  told  me  by  the  Count  St.  Angelo, 
When  in  a  blustering  night  he  sheltered  me 
In  that  brave  castle  of  his  ancestors 
O'er  GARKKLIANO,  and  is  such  indeed 
As  every  day  brings  with  it  —  in  a  land 
Where  laws  are  trampled  on  and  lawless  men 
Walk  in  the  sun ;  but  it  should  not  be  lost, 
For  it  may  serve  to  bind  us  to  our  country. 


AN    ADVENTURE. 

THREE  days  they  lay  in  ambush  at  my  gate,283 

Then  sprung  and  led  me  captive.     Many  a  wild 

We  traversed  ;  but  EUSCONI,  ''t  was  no  less, 

Marched  by  my  side,  and,  when  I  thirsted,  climbed 

The  cliffs  for  water  ;  though,  whene'er  he  spoke, 

'T  was  briefly,  sullenly  ;  and  on  he  led, 

Distinguished  only  by  an  amulet, 

That  in  a  golden  chain  hung  from  his  neck, 

A  crystal  of  rare  virtue.     Night  fell  fast, 

When  on  a  heath,  black  and  immeasurable, 

He  turned  and  bade  them  halt.    'Twas  where  the  earth 

Heaves  o'er  the  dead — where  erst  some  ALARIC 


388  ITALY. 

Fought  his  last  fight,  and  every  warrior  threw 
A  stone  to  tell  for  ages  where  he  lay. 

Then  all  advanced,  and,  ranging  in  a  square, 
Stretched  forth  their  arms  as  on  the  holy  cross, 
From  each  to  each  their  sable  cloaks  extending, 
That,  like  the  solemn  hangings  of  a  tent, 
Covered  us  round  ;  and  in  the  midst  I  stood, 
Weary  and  faint,  and  face  to  face  with  one, 
Whose  voice,  whose  look  dispenses  life  and  death, 
Whose  heart  knows  no  relentings.     Instantly 
A  light  was  kindled  and  the  bandit  spoke. 
"  I  know  thee.     Thou  hast  sought  us,  for  the  sport 
Slipping  thy  blood-hounds  with  a  hunter's  cry ; 
And  thou  hast  found  at  last.     Were  I  as  thou, 
I  in  thy  grasp  as  thou  art  now  in  ours, 
Soon  should  I  make  a  midnight  spectacle, 
Soon,  limb  by  limb,  be  mangled  on  a  wheel, 
Then  gibbeted  to  blacken  for  the  vultures. 
But  I  would  teach  thee  better  —   —  how  to  spare. 
Write  as  I  dictate.     If  thy  ransom  comes, 
Thou  liv'st.     If  not  —  but  answer  not,  I  pray, 
Lest  thou  provoke  me.     I  may  strike  thee  dead ; 
And  know,  young  man,  it  is  an  easier  thing 
To  do  it  than  to  say  it.     Write,  and  thus." — 

I  wrote.    "  'T  is  well,"  he  cried.    "  A  peasant-boy, 
Trusty  and  swift  of  foot,  shall  bear  it  hence. 
Meanwhile  lie  down  and  rest.     This  cloak  of  mine 
Will  serve  thee  ;  it  has  weathered  many  a  storm." 

The  watch  was  set ;  and  twice  it  had  been  changed, 
When  morning  broke,  and  a  wild  bird,  a  hawk, 
Flew  in  a  circle,  screaming.     I  looked  up, 
And  all  were  gone,  save  him  who  now  kept  guard 


AN   ADVENTUKE.  389 

And  on  his  arms  lay  musing.     Young  he  seemed, 

And  sad,  as  though  he  could  indulge  at  will 

Some  secret  grief.    "  Thou  shrinkest  back,';  he  said. 

"  Well  may'st  thou,  lying,  as  thou  dost,  so  near 

A  ruffian  —  one  forever  linked  and  bound 

To  guilt  and  infamy.    There  was  a  time 

When  he  had  not  perhaps  been  deemed  unworthy, 

When  he  had  watched  yon  planet  to  its  setting, 

And  dwelt  with  pleasure  on  the  meanest  thing 

Nature  gives  birth  to.     Now,  alas !  't  is  past. 

Wouldst  thou  know  more  ?    My  story  is  an  old  one. 
I  loved,  was  scorned  ;  I  trusted,  was  betrayed  ; 
And  in  my  anguish,  my  necessity, 
Met  with  the  fiend,  the  tempter  —  in  RuSGONI. 
1  Why  thus  1 '  he  cried.     '  Thou  wouldst  be  free  and  dar'st 

not. 

Come  and  assert  thy  birthright  while  thou  canst. 
A  robber's  cave  is  better  than  a  dungeon ; 
And  death  itself,  what  is  it  at  the  worst, 
What  but  a  harlequin's  leap?'     Him  I  had  known, 
Had  served  with,  suffered  with  ;  and  on  the  walls 
Of  PADUA,  while  the  moon  went  down,  I  swore 
Allegiance  on  his  dagger. — —  Dost  thou  ask 
How  I  have  kept  my  oath  ?     Thou  shalt  be  told, 
Cost  what  it  may.     But  grant  me,  I  implore, 
Grant  me  a  passport  to  some  distant  land, 
That  I  may  never,  never  more  be  named. 
Thou  wilt,  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Two  months  ago, 

When  on  a  vineyard-hill  we  lay  concealed 
And  scattered  up  and  down  as  we  were  wont, 
I  heard  a  damsel  singing  to  herself, 
33* 


390  ITALY. 

And  soon  espied  her,  coming  all  alone, 

In  her  first  beauty.     Up  a  path  she  came, 

Leafy  and  intricate,  singing  her  song, 

A  song  of  love,  by  snatches  ;  breaking  off 

If  but  a  flower,  an  insect  in  the  sun, 

Pleased  for  an  instant ;  then  as  carelessly 

The  strain  resuming,  and,  where'er  she  stopt, 

Rising  on  tiptoe  underneath  the  boughs 

To  pluck  a  grape  in  very  wantonness. 

Her  look,  her  mien  and  maiden  ornaments, 

Showed  gentle  birth  ;  and,  step  by  step,  she  came, 

Nearer  and  nearer,  to  the  dreadful  snare. 

None  else  were  by ;  and,  as  I  gazed  unseen, 

Her  youth,  her  innocence  and  gayety, 

Went  to  my  heart !  and,  starting  up,  I  breathed, 

'  Fly  —  for  your  life  ! '    Alas  !  she  shrieked,  she  fell ; 

And,  as  I  caught  her  falling,  all  rushed  forth. 

'  A  wood-nymph  ! '  cried  Ruscoxi.    <  By  the  light, 

Lovely  as  Hebe  !    Lay  her  in  the  shade.' 

I  heard  him  not.    I  stood  as  in  a  trance. 

'What,'  he  exclaimed,  with  a  malicious  smile, 

1  Wouldst  thou  rebel  ?  '     I  did  as  he  required. 

1  Now  bear  her  hence  to  the  well-head  below  ; 

A  few  cold  drops  will  animate  this  marble. 

Go  !    'Tis  an  office  all  will  envy  thee  ; 

But  thou  hast  earned  it.'    As  I  staggered  down, 

Unwilling  to  surrender  her  sweet  body ; 

Her  golden  hair  dishevelled  on  a  neck 

Of  snow,  and  her  fair  eyes  closed  as  in  sleep, 

Frantic  with  love,  with  hate,  '  Great  God  ! '  I  cried 

(I  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  pray ; 2S1 

But  there  are  moments  when  the  courage  comes), 


AN   ADVENTURE.  391 

1  Why  may  I  not,  while  yet  —  while  yet  I  can, 
Release  her  from  a  thraldom  worse  than  death  ? ' 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said.     I  kissed  her  brow. 
And  smote  her  with  my  dagger.     A  short  cry 
She  uttered,  but  she  stirred  not ;  and  to  heaven 
Her  gentle  spirit  fled.    'T  was  where  the  path 
In  its  descent  turned  suddenly.     No  eye 
Observed  me,  though  their  steps  were  following  fast. 
But  soon  a  yell  broke  forth,  and  all  at  once 
Levelled  with  deadly  aim.     Then  I  had  ceased 
To  trouble  or  be  troubled,  and  had  now 
(Would  I  were  there  !)  been  slumbering  in  my  grave, 
Had  not  RUSCONI  with  a  terrible  shout 
Thrown  himself  in  between  us,  and  exclaimed, 
Grasping  my  arm,  "T  is  bravely,  nobly  done  ! 
Is  it  for  deeds  like  these  thou  wear'st  a  sword  ? 
Was  this  the  business  that  thou  cam'st  upon  ? 

—  But  'tis  his  first  offence,  and  let  it  pass. 
Like  the  young  tiger  he  has  tasted  blood, 
And  may  do  much  hereafter.    He  can  strike 
Home  to  the  hilt.'     Then  in  an  undertone, 

'  Thus  wouldst  thou  justify  the  pledge  I  gave, 
When  in  the  eyes  of  all  I  read  distrust  ? 
For  once,'  and  on  his  cheek,  methought,  I  saw 
The  blush  of  virtue,  1 1  will  save  thee,  Albert  ; 
Again  I  cannot.' ' 

Ere  his  tale  was  told, 

As  on  the  heath  we  lay,  my  ransom  came  j 
And  in  six  days,  with  no  ungrateful  mind, 
Albert  was  sailing  on  a  quiet  sea. 

—  But  the  night  wears,  and  thou  art  much  in  need 
Of  rest.     The  young  Antonio,  with  his  torch, 

Is  waiting  to  conduct  thee  to  thy  chamber. 


392  ITALY. 


NAPLES. 

THIS  region,  surely,  is  not  of  the  earth.285 
Was  it  not  dropt  from  heaven  ?    Not  a  grove, 
Citron  or  pine  or  cedar,  not  a  grot 
Sea-worn  and  mantled  with  the  gadding  vine, 
But  breathes  enchantment.    Not  a  cliff  but  flings 
On  the  clear  wave  some  image  of  delight, 
Some  cabin-roof  glowing  with  crimson  flowers, 
Some  ruined  temple  or  fallen  monument, 
To  muse  on  as  the  bark  is  gliding  by. 
And  be  it  mine  to  muse  there,  mine  to  glide,286 
From  daybreak,  when  the  mountain  pales  his  fire 
Yet  more  and  more,  and  from  the  mountain  top, 
Till  then  invisible,  a  smoke  ascends, 
Solemn  and  slow,  as  erst  from  ARARAT, 
When  he,  the  Patriarch,  who  escaped  the  Flood, 
Was  with  his  household  sacrificing  there  — 
From  daybreak  to  that  hour,  the  last  and  best, 
When,  one  by  one,  the  fishing-boats  come  forth, 
Each  with  its  glimmering  lantern  at  the  prow, 
And,  when  the  nets  are  thrown,  the  evening-hymn 
Steals  o'er  the  trembling  waters. 

Everywhere 

Fable  and  truth  have  shed,  in  rivalry, 
Each  her  peculiar  influence.     Fable  came 
And  laughed  and  sung,  arraying  Truth  in  flowers, 
Like  a  young  child  her  grandam.     Fable  came  ; 
Earth,  sea  and  sky  reflecting,  as  she  flew, 
A  thousand,  thousand  colors  not  their  own  : 


And  at  her  bidding,  lo  !  a  dark  descent 


NAPLES.  393 

To  TARTARUS,  and  those  thrice  happy  fields, 
Those  fields  with  ether  pure  and  purple  light 
Ever  invested,  scenes  by  him  portrayed287 
Who  here  was  wont  to  wander,  here  invoke 
The  sacred  Muses,288  here  receive,  record 
What  they  revealed,  and  on  the  western  shore 
Sleeps  in  a  silent  grove,  o'erlooking  thee, 
Beloved  PARTHENOPE  ! 

Yet  here,  rnethinks, 

Truth  wants  no  ornament,  in  her  own  shape 
Filling  the  mind  by  turns  with  awe  and  love, 
By  turns  inclining  to  wild  ecstasy, 
And  soberest  meditation.     Here  the  vines 
Wed  each  her  elm,  and  o'er  the  golden  grain 
Hang  their  luxuriant  clusters,  checkering 
The  sunshine ;  where,  when  cooler  shadows  fall 
And  the  mild  moon  her  fairy  net-work  weaves, 
The  lute  or  mandoline,  accompanied 
By  many  a  voice  yet  sweeter  than  their  own, 
Kindles,  nor  slowly ;  and  the  dance289  displays 
The  gentle  arts  and  witcheries  of  love, 
Its  hopes  and  fears  and  feignings,  till  the  youth 
Drops  on  his  knee  as  vanquished,  and  the  maid, 
Her  tambourine  uplifting  with  a  grace 
Nature's,  and  Nature's  only,  bids  him  rise. 

But  here  the  mighty  Monarch  underneath, 
He  in  his  palace  of  fire,  diffuses  round 
A  dazzling  splendor.     Here,  unseen,  unheard, 
Opening  another  Eden  in  the  wild, 
His  gifts  he  scatters ;  save,  when  issuing  forth 
In  thunder,  he  blots  out  the  sun,  the  sky, 


394  ITALY. 

And,  mingling  all  things  earthly  as  in  scorn. 
Exalts  the  valley,  lays  the  mountain  low, 
Pours  many  a  torrent  from  his  burning  lake, 
And  in  an  hour  of  universal  mirth, 
What  time  the  trump  proclaims  the  festival, 
Buries  some  capital  city,  there  to  sleep 
The  sleep  of  ages  —  till  a  plough,  a  spade, 
Disclose  the  secret,  and  the  eye  of  day 
Glares  coldly  on  the  streets,  the  skeletons ; 
Each  in  his  place,  each  in  his  gay  attire, 
And  eager  to  enjoy. 

Let  us  go  round ; 

And  let  the  sail  be  slack,  the  course  be  slow, 
That  at  our  leisure,  as  we  coast  along, 
We  may  contemplate,  and  from  every  scene 
Receive  its  influence.     The  CUIVLEAN  towers, 
There  did  they  rise,  sun-gilt ;  and  here  thy  groves, 
Delicious  BAIJE.     Here  (what  would  they  not  ?) 
The  masters  of  the  earth,  unsatisfied, 
Built  in  the  sea ;  and  now  the  boatman  steers 
O'er  many  a  crypt  and  vault  yet  glimmering, 
O'er  many  a  broad  and  indestructible  arch, 
The  deep  foundations  of  their  palaces  ; 
Nothing  now  heard  ashore,  so  great  the  change, 
Save  when  the  sea-mew  clamors,  or  the  owl 
Hoots  in  the  temple. 

What  the  mountainous  isle200 
Seen  in  the  south  ?     'T  is  where  a  monster  dwelt,291 
Hurling  his  victims  from  the  topmost  cliff; 
Then  and  then  only  merciful,  so  slow, 
So  subtle,  were  the  tortures  they  endured. 
Fearing  and  feared  he  lived,  cursing  and  cursed ; 


NAPLES.  395 

And  still  the  dungeons  in  the  rock  breathe  out 

Darkness,  distemper.     Strange,  that  one  so  vile292 

Should  from  his  den  strike  terror  through  the  world ; 

Should,  where  withdrawn  in  his  decrepitude, 

Say  to  the  noblest,  be  they  where  they  might, 

"  Go  from  the  earth  ! "  and  from  the  earth  they  went. 

Yet  such  things  were  —  and  will  be,  when  mankind, 

Losing  all  virtue,  lose  all  energy ; 

And  for  the  loss  incur  the  penalty, 

Trodden  down  and  trampled. 

Let  us  turn  the  prow, 
And  in  the  track  of  him  who  went  to  die293 
Traverse  this  valley  of  waters,  landing  where 
A  waking  dream  awaits  us.     At  a  step 
Two  thousand  years  roll  backward,  and  we  stand, 
Like  those  so  long  within  that  awful  place,294 
Immovable,  nor  asking,  Can  it  be  ? 

Once  did  I  linger  there  alone  till  day 
Closed,  and  at  length  the  calm  of  twilight  came, 
So  grateful,  yet  so  solemn  !     At  the  fount, 
Just  where  the  three  ways  meet,  I  stood  and  looked 
('T  was  near  a  noble  house,  the  house  of  Pansa),295 
And  all  was  still  as  in  the  long,  long  night 
That  followed,  when  the  shower  of  ashes  fell, 
When  they  that  sought  POMPEII  sought  in  vain  ; 
It  was  not  to  be  found.     But  now  a  ray, 
Bright  and  yet  brighter,  on  the  pavement  glanced, 
And  on  the  wheel-track  worn  for  centuries, 
And  on  the  stepping-stones  from  side  to  side, 
O'er  which  the  maidens,  with  their  water-urns, 
Were  wont  to  trip  so  lightly.     Full  and  clear, 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  at  once  revealed 


ITALY. 

The  name  of  every  dweller,  and  his  craft ; 
Shining  throughout  with  an  unusual  lustre. 
And  lighting  up  this  city  of  the  dead. 

Mark,  where  within,  as  though  the  embers  lived, 
The  ample  chimney- vault  is  dun  with  smoke. 
There  dwelt  a  miller  ;  silent  and  at  rest 
His  mill-stones  now.     In  old  companionship 
Still  do  they  stand  as  on  the  day  he  went, 
Each  ready  for  its  office — but  he  comes  not. 
And  there,  hard  by  (where  one  in  idleness 
Has  stopt  to  scrawl  a  ship,  an  armed  man  ; 
And  in  a  tablet  on  the  wall  we  read 
Of  shows  ere  long  to  be)  a  sculptor  wrought, 
Nor  meanly ;  blocks,  half-chiselled  into  life, 
Waiting  his  call.  —  Here  long,  as  yet  attests 
The  trodden  floor,  an  olive-merchant  drew 
From  many  an  earthen  jar,  no  more  supplied ; 
And  here  from  his  a  vintner  served  his  guests 
Largely,  the  stain  of  his  o'erflowing  cups 
Fresh  on  the  marble.     On  the  bench,  beneath, 
They  sate  and  quaffed  and  looked  on  them  that  passed, 
Gravely  discussing  the  last  news  from  ROME. 

But,  lo  !  engraven  on  the  threshold-stone, 
That  word  of  courtesy  so  sacred  once, 
HAIL  !     At  a  master's  greeting  we  may  enter. 
And,  lo  !   a  fairy-palace  ;  everywhere, 
As  through  the  courts  and  chambers  we  advance, 
Floors  of  mosaic,  walls  of  arabesque, 
And  columns  clustering  in  patrician  splendor. 
But  hark,  a  footstep  !     May  we  not  intrude  ? 
And  now,  methinks,  I  hear  a  gentle  laugh, 
And  gentle  voices  mingling  as  in  converse  ! 


THE  BAG   OP  GOLD.  397 

—  And  now  a  harp-string  as  struck  carelessly. 
And  now  —  along  the  corridor  it  conies  — 
I  cannot  err,  a  filling  as  of  baths  ! 
—Ah,  no  !  'tis  but  a  mockery  of  the  sense. 
Idle  and  vain  !     We  are  but  where  we  were ; 
Still  wandering  in  a  city  of  the  dead ! 


THE  BAG   OF   GOLD. 

I  DINE  very  often  with  the  good  old  Cardinal  *  *,  and, 
I  should  add,  with  his  cats  ;  for  they  always  sit  at  his  table, 
and  are  much  the  gravest  of  the  company.  His  beaming 
countenance  makes  us  forget  his  age ; 296  nor  did  I  ever  see 
it  clouded  till  yesterday,  when,  as  we  were  contemplating 
the  sunset  from  his  terrace,  he  happened,  in  the  course  of 
our  conversation,  to  allude  to  an  affecting  circumstance  in 
his  early  life. 

He  had  just  left  the  University  of  PALERMO,  and  was 
entering  the  army,  when  he  became  acquainted  with  a 
young  lady  of  great  beauty  and  merit,  a  Sicilian  of  a  fam 
ily  as  illustrious  as  his  own.  Living  near  each  other,  they 
were  often  together ;  and,  at  an  age  like  theirs,  friendship 
soon  turns  to  love  But  his  father,  for  what  reason  I  for 
get,  refused  his  consent  to  their  union  ;  till,  alarmed  at  the 
declining  health  of  his  son,  he  promised  to  oppose  it  no 
longer,  if,  after  a  separation  of  three  years,  they  continued 
as  much  in  love  as  ever. 

Relying  on  that  promise,  he  said,  I  set  out  on  a  long 

journey ;  but  in  my  absence  the  usual  arts  were  resorted  to. 

Our  letters  were  intercepted ;  and  false  rumors  were  spread 

—  first  of  my  indifference,  then  of  my  inconstancy,  then  of 

34 


898  ITALY. 

my  marriage  with  a  rich  heiress  of  SIENNA  ;  and,  when  at 
length  I  returned  to  make  her  my  own,  I  found  her  in  a 
convent  of  Ursuline  Nuns.  She  had  taken  the  veil ;  and 
I,  said  he  with  a  sigh  —  what  else  remained  for  me  ?  —  I 
went  into  the  church. 

Yet  many,  he  continued,  as  if  to  turn  the  conversation, 
very  many  have  been  happy,  though  we  were  not ;  and,  if  I 
am  not  abusing  an  old  man's  privilege,  let  me  tell  you  a 
story  with  a  better  catastrophe.  It  was  told  to  me  when  a 
boy ;  and  you  may  not  be  unwilling  to  hear  it,  for  it  bears 
some  resemblance  to  that  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 

We  were  now  arrived  at  a  pavilion  that  commanded  one 
of  the  noblest  prospects  imaginable  ;  the  mountains,  the 
sea,  and  the  islands  illuminated  by  the  last  beams  of  day ; 
anc^  sitting  down  there,  he  proceeded  with  his  usual  vivac 
ity  ;  for  the  sadness  that  had  come  across  him  was  gone. 

There  lived  in  the  fourteenth  century,  near  BOLOGNA,  a 
widow-lady  of  the  Lambertini  family,  called  MADONNA  Lu- 
CREZIA,  who  in  a  revolution  of  the  state  had  known  the 
bitterness  of  poverty,  and  had  even  begged  her  bread ; 
kneeling  day  after  day  like  a  statue  at  the  gate  of  the  cathe 
dral  ;  her  rosary  in  her  left  hand  and  her  right  held  out  for 
charity,  her  long  black  veil  concealing  a  face  that  had  once 
adorned  a  court,  and  had  received  the  homage  of  as  many 
sonnets  as  PETRARCH  has  written  on  LAURA. 

But  Fortune  had  at  last  relented ;  a  legacy  from  a  distant 
relation  had  come  to  her  relief:  and  she  was  now  the  mis 
tress  of  a  small  inn  at  the  foot  of  the  Apennines,  where 
she  entertained  as  well  as  she  could,  and  where  those  only 
stopped  who  were  contented  with  a  little.  The  house  was 
still  standing  when  in  my  youth  I  passed  that  way ;  though 
the  sign  of  the  White  Cross,297  the  Cross  of  the  Hospitallers, 


THE   BAG    OF    GOLD.  399 

was  no  longer  to  be  seen  over  the  door ;  a  sign  which  she 
had  taken,  if  we  may  believe  the  tradition  there,  in  honor 
of  a  maternal  uncle,  a  grand-master  of  that  order,  whose 
achievements  in  PALESTINE  she  would  sometimes  relate.  A 
mountain-stream  ran  through  the  garden ;  and,  at  no  great 
distance,  where  the  road  turned  on  its  way  to  BOLOGNA, 
stood  a  little  chapel  in  which  a  lamp  was  always  burning 
before  a  picture  of  the  Virgin, —  a  picture  of  great  anti 
quity,  the  work  of  some  Greek  artist. 

Here  she  was  dwelling,  respected  by  all  who  laiew  her. 
when  an  event  took  place  which  threw  her  into  the  deepest 
affliction.  It  was  at  noon-day  in  September  that  three  foot- 
travellers  arrived,  and,  seating  themselves  on  a  bench  under 
her  vine-trellis,  were  supplied  with  a  flagon  of  Aleatico  by 
a  lovely  girl,  her  only  child,  the  image  of  her  former  self. 
The  eldest  spoke  like  a  Venetian,  and  his  beard  was  short, 
and  pointed  after  the  fashion  of  Venice.  In  his  demeanor 
he  affected  great  courtesy,  but  his  look  inspired  little  con 
fidence  :  for,  when  he  smiled,  which  he  did  continually,  it 
was  with  his  lips  only,  not  with  his  eyes  ;  and  they  were 
always  turned  from  yours.  His  companions  were  bluff 
and  frank  in  their  manner,  and  on  their  tongues  had  many  a 
soldier's  oath.  In  their  hats  they  wore  a  medal,  such  as  in 
that  age  was  often  distributed  in  war ;  and  they  were  evi 
dently  subalterns  in  one  of  those  free  bands  which  were 
always  ready  to  serve  in  any  quarrel,  if  a  service  it  could 
be  called  where  a  battle  was  little  more  than  a  mockery, 
and  the  slain,  as  on  an  opera-stage,  were  up  and  fighting 
to-morrow.  Overcome  with  the  heat,  they  threw  aside 
their  cloaks,  and,  with  their  gloves  tucked  under  their 
belts,  continued  for  some  time  in  earnest  conversation. 

At  length  they  rose  to  go ;  and  the  Venetian  thus  ad- 


400  ITALY. 

dressed  their  hostess:  "Excellent  lady,  may  we  leave 
under  your  roof,  for  a  day  or  two,  this  bag  of  gold?" 
"You  may,"  she  replied,  gay ly.  "But  remember,  wo 
fasten  only  with  a  latch.  Bars  and  bolts  we  have  none  in 
our  village ;  and,  if  we  had,  where  would  be  your  secur 
ity  ?"-  —  "  In  your  word,  lady." 

"But  what  if  I  died  to-night?  Where  would  it  be 
then?  "  said  she,  laughing.  "The  money  would  go  to  the 
church  :  for  none  could  claim  it." 

"Perhaps  you  will  favor  us  with  an  acknowledgment." 
"If  you  will  write  it." 

An  acknowledgment  was  written  accordingly,  and  she 
signed  it  before  Master  Bartolo,  the  village  physician,  who 
had  just  called  on  his  mule  to  learn  the  news  of  the  day ; 
the  gold  to  be  delivered  when  applied  for,  but  to  be  de 
livered  (these  were  the  words)  not  to  one  —  nor  to  two  — 
but  to  the  three ;  words  wisely  introduced  by  those  to 
whom  it  belonged,  knowing  what  they  knew  of  each  other. 
The  gold  they  had  just  released  from  a  miser's  chest  in 
PERUGIA  ;  and  they  were  now  on  a  scent  that  promised 
more. 

They  and  their  shadows  were  no  sooner  departed,  than 
the  Venetian  returned,  saying,  "Give  me  leave  to  set  my 
seal  on  the  bag,  as  the  others  have  done;"  and  she  placed 
it  on  a  table  before  him.  But  in  that  moment  she  was 
called  away  to  receive  a  cavalier,  who  had  just  dismounted 
from  his  horse  ;  and,  when  she  came  back,  it  was  gone. 
The  temptation  had  proved  irresistible  ;  and  the  man  and 
the  money  had  vanished  together. 

"  Wretched  woman  that  I  am  !  "  she  cried,  as  in  an  agony 
of  grief  she  threw  herself  on  her  daughter's  neck,  "what 
will  become  of  us  ?  Are  we  again  to  be  cast  out  into  the 


THE   BAG   OF   GOLD.  401 

wide  world  ?  .  .  Unhappy  child,  would  that  thou  hadst  never 
been  born  !  "  and  all  day  long  she  lamented ;  but  her  tears 
availed  her  little.  The  others  were  not  slow  in  returning  to 
claim  their  due-  and  there  were  no  tidings  of  the  thief;  he 
had  fled  far  awray  with  his  plunder.  A  process  against  her 
was  instantly  begun  in  BOLOGNA;  and  what  defence  could 
she  make,  — how  release  herself  from  the  obligation  of  the 
bond  ?  Wilfully  or  in  negligence  she  had  parted  with  the 
gold, —  she  had  parted  with  it  to  one.  when  she  should  have 
kept  it  for  all ;  and  inevitable  ruin  awaited  her  !  ' '  Go, 
GiANETTA,'1  said  she  to  her  daughter,  "  take  this  veil  which 
your  mother  has  worn  and  wept  under  so  often,  and  implore 
the  counsellor  Calderino  to  plead  for  us  on  the  day  of  trial. 
He  is  generous,  and  will  listen  to  the  unfortunate.  But,  if 
he  will  not,  go  from  door  to  door ;  Monaldi  cannot  refuse 
us.  Make  haste,  my  child;  but  remember  the  chapel  as 
you  pass  by  it.  Nothing  prospers  without  a  prayer." 

Alas !  she  went,  but  in  vain.  These  were  retained  against 
them  ;  those  demanded  more  than  they  had  to  give  ;  and  all 
bade  them  despair.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  No  advocate ; 
and  the  cause  to  come  on  to-morrow ! 

Now  GIANETTA  had  a  lover ;  and  he  was  a  student  of  the 
law,  a  young  man  of  great  promise,  LORENZO  MARTELLI. 
He  had  studied  long  and  diligently  under  that  learned 
lawyer.  GIOVANNI  ANDREAS,  who,  though  little  of  stature, 
was  great  in  renown,  and  by  his  contemporaries  was  called 
the  Arch-doctor,  the  Rabbi  of  Doctors,  the  Light  of  the 
World.  Under  him  he  had  studied,  sitting  on  the  same 
bench  with  Petrarch;  and  also  under  his  daughter  NOVELLA, 
who  would  often  lecture  to  the  scholars  when  her  father  was 
otherwise  engaged,  placing  herself  behind  a  small  curtain 
lest  her  beauty  should  divert  their  thoughts  from  the  sub- 
34* 


402  ITALY. 

ject;  a  precaution  in  this  instance  at  least  unnecessary, 
LORENZO  having  lost  his  heart  to  another.298 

To  him  she  flies  in  her  necessity ;  but  of  what  assistance 
can  he  be  ?  He  has  just  taken  his  place  at  the  bar,  but  he 
has  never  spoken ;  and  how  stand  up  alone,  unpractised  and 
unprepared  as  he  is,  against  an  array  that  would  alarm  the 
most  experienced?  —  "  Were  I  as  mighty  as  I  am  weak," 
said  he,  '  '•  my  fears  for  you  would  make  me  as  nothing. 
But  I  will  be  there,  GIANETTA  ;  and  may  the  Friend  of  the 
friendless  give  me  strength  in  that  hour !  Even  now  my 
heart  fails  me ;  but,  come  what  will,  while  I  have  a  loaf  to 
share  you  and  your  mother  shall  never  want.  I  will  beg 
through  the  world  for  you." 

The  day  arrives,  and  the  court  assembles.  The  claim  is 
stated,  and  the  evidence  given.  And  now  the  defence  is 
called  for  —  but  none  is  made ;  not  a  syllable  is  uttered  ; 
and,  after  a  pause  and  a  consultation  of  some  minutes,  the 
judges  are  proceeding  to  give  judgment,  silence  having  been 
proclaimed  in  the  court,  when  LORENZO  rises  and  thus  ad 
dresses  them  :  "  Reverend  signors.  Young  as  I  am,  may  I 
venture  to  speak  before  you  ?  I  would  speak  in  behalf  of 
one  who  has  none  else  to  help  her ;  and  I  will  not  keep  you 
long.  Much  has  been  said ;  much  on  the  sacred  nature  of 
the  obligation — and  we  acknowledge  it  in  its  full  force.  Let 
it  be  fulfilled,  and  to  the  last  letter.  It  is  what  we  solicit, 
what  we  require.  But  to  whom  is  the  bag  of  gold  to  be 
delivered  ?  What  says  the  bond  ?  Not  to  one — not  to  two  — 
but  to  the  three.  Let  the  three  stand  forth  and  claim  it." 

From  that  day  (for  who  can  doubt  the  issue  ?)  none 
were  sought,  none  employed,  but  the  subtle,  the  eloquent 
LORENZO.  Wealth  followed  fame ;  nor  need  I  say  how  soon 
he  sat  at  his  marriage-feast,  or  who  sat  beside  him. 


A    CHARACTER.  403 


A   CHARACTER. 

ONE  of  two  things  MONTRIOLI  may  have, 

My  envy  or  compassion.     Both  he  cannot. 

Yet  on  he  goes,  numbering  as  miseries 

What  least  of  all  he  would  consent  to  lose, 

What  most  indeed  he  prides  himself  upon, 

And,  for  not  having,  most  despises  me. 

"  At  morn  the  minister  exacts  an  hour; 

At  noon,  the  king.     Then  comes  the  council-board ; 

And  then  the  chase,  the  supper.     When,  ah  !  when, 

The  leisure  and  the  liberty  I  sigh  for  ? 

Not  when  at  home  ;  at  home  a  miscreant  crew, 

That  now  no  longer  serve  me,  mine  the  service. 

And  then  that  old  hereditary  bore, 

The  steward,  his  stories  longer  than  his  rent-roll, 

Who  enters,  quill  in  ear,  and,  one  by  one, 

As  though  I  lived  to  write  and  wrote  to  live, 

Unrolls  his  leases  for  my  signature." 

He  clanks  his  fetters  to  disturb  my  peace. 
Yet  -who  would  wear  them299  and  become  the  slave 
Of  wealth  and  power,  renouncing  willingly 
His  freedom,  and  the  hours  that  fly  so  fast, 
A  burden  or  a  curse  when  misemployed, 
But  to  the  wise  how  precious  —  every  day 
A  little  life,  a  blank  to  be  inscribed 
With  gentle  deeds,  such  as  in  after-time 
Console,  rejoice,  whene'er  we  turn  the  leaf 
To  read  them  ?     All,  wherever  in  the  scale, 
Have,  be  they  high  or  low,  or  rich  or  poor, 
Inherit  they  a  sheep-hook  or  a  sceptre, 


404  ITALY. 

Much  to  be  grateful  for ;  but  most  has  he. 
Born  in  that  middle  sphere,  that  temperate  zone. 
Where  Knowledge  lights  his  lamp,  there  most  secure, 
And  Wisdom  comes,  if  ever,  she  who  dwells 
Above  the  clouds,  above  the  firmament, 
That  seraph  sitting  in  the  heaven  of  heavens. 

What  men  most  covet,  wealth,  distinction,  power, 
Are  baubles  nothing  worth,  that  only  serve 
To  rouse  us  up,  as  children  in  the  schools 
Are  roused  up  to  exertion.     The  reward 
Is  in  the  race  we  run.  not  in  the  prize ; 
And  they,  the  few,  that  have  it  ere  they  earn  it, 
Having,  by  favor  or  inheritance, 
These  dangerous  gifts  placed  in  their  idle  hands, 
And  all  that  should  await  on  worth  well-tried, 
All  in  the  glorious  days  of  old  reserved 
For  manhood  most  mature  or  reverend  age, 
Know  not,  nor  ever  can,  the  generous  pride 
That  glows  in  him  who  on  himself  relies, 
Entering  the  lists  of  life. 


P^ESTUM. 

THEY  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea 
Awful  memorials,  but  of  whom  we  know  not ! 
The  seaman,  passing,  gazes  from  the  deck. 
The  buffalo-driver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak, 
Points  to  the  work  of  magic  and  moves  on. 
Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street, 
Temples  of  gods  !  and  on  their  ample  steps 
What  various  habits,  various  tongues,  beset 


P^ESTUM.  405 

The  brazen  gates  for  prayer  and  sacrifice  ! 

Time  was  perhaps  the  Third  was  sought  for  justice  ; 

And  here  the  accuser  stood,  and  there  the  accused ; 

And  here  the  judges  sate,  and  heard,  and  judged. 

All  silent  now  !  —  as  in  the  ages  past, 

Trodden  under  foot  and  mingled,  dust  with  dust. 

How  many  centuries  did  the  sun  go  round 
From  MOUNT  ALBURNUS  to  the  TYRRHENE  sea, 
While,  by  some  spell  rendered  invisible, 
Or,  if  approached,  approached  by  him  alone 
Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  remained 
As  in  the  darkness  of  a  sepulchre, 
Waiting  the  appointed  time  !     All,  all  within 
Proclaims  that  Nature  had  resumed  her  right, 
And  taken  to  herself  wiiat  man  renounced  ; 
No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  worn  abacus, 
But  with  thick  ivy  hung  or  branching  fern ; 
Their  iron-brown  o'erspread  with  brightest  verdure  ! 

From  my  youth  upward  have  I  longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground.  —  And  am  I  here  at  last  ? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticos, 
And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove, 
Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like, 
Mountains  and  mountain-gulfs,  and,  half-way  up, 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew  ? 
A  cloudy  region,  black  and  desolate, 
Where  once  a  slave  withstood  a  world  in  arms.'301 

The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild  m 
'Mid  broken  friezes  and  fallen  capitals  ; 
Sweet  as  when  TULLY,  writing  down  his  thoughts, 
Those  thoughts  so  precious  and  so  lately  lost303 
(Turning  to  thee,  divine  Philosophy, 


406  ITALY. 

Ever  at  hand  to  calm  his  troubled  soul). 

Sailed  slowly  by,  two  thousand  years  ago, 

For  ATHENS  ;  when  a  ship,  if  north-east  winds 

Blew  from  the  PJSSTAN  gardens,  slacked  her  course. 

On  as  he  moved  along  the  level  shore, 
These  temples,  in  their  splendor  eminent 
'Mid  arcs  and  obelisks,  and  domes  and  towers, 
Reflecting  back  the  radiance  of  the  west, 
Well  might  he  dream  of  Glory  !  — Now,  coiled  up, 
The  serpent  sleeps  within  them  ;  the  she-wolf 
Suckles  her  young  :  and,  as  alone  I  stand 
In  this,  the  nobler  pile,  the  elements 
Of  earth  and  air  its  only  floor  and  roof. 
How  solemn  is  the  stillness  !     Nothing  stirs 
Save  the  shrill-voiced  cicala  flitting  round 
On  the  rough  pediment  to  sit  and  sing ; 
Or  the  green  lizard  rustling  through  the  grass, 
And  up  the  fluted  shaft  with  short  quick  spring, 
To  vanish  in  the  chinks  that  Time  has  made. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun's  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a  flood  of  light 
Filling  the  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries 
(Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  confused, 
Athwart  the  innumerable  columns  flung)  — 
In  such  an  hour  he  came,  who  saw  and  told, 
Led  by  the  mighty  genius  of  the  place.304 

Walls  of  some  capital  city  first  appeared, 
Half  razed,  half  sunk,  or  scattered  as  in  scorn ; 
—  And  what  within  them  ?  what  but  in  the  midst 
These  Three  in  more  than  their  original  grandeur, 
And,  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another  ? 


P2ESTUM.  407 

As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear, 
And,  turning,  left  them  to  the  elements. 
'T  is  said  a  stranger  in  the  days  of  old 
(Some  say  a  DORIAN,  some  a  SYBARITE  ; 
But  distant  things  are  ever  lost  in  clouds)  — 
'T  is  said  a  stranger  came,  and,  with  his  plough, 
Traced  out  the  site  ;  and  POSLDONIA  rose,"05 
Severely  great,  NEPTUNE  the  tutelar  god  ; 
A  HOMER'S  language  murmuring  in  her  streets, 
And  in  her  haven  many  a  mast  from  TYRE. 
Then  came  another,  an  unbidden  guest. 
He  knocked  and  entered  with  a  train  in  arms ; 
And  all  was  changed,  her  very  name  and  language  ! 
The  TYRIAN  merchant,  shipping  at^his  door 
Ivory  and  gold,  and  silk,  and  frankincense, 
Sailed  as  before,  but,  sailing,  cried,  "  FOR  PJESTUM  ! " 
And  now  a  VIRGIL,  now  an  OVID  sung 
PJESTUM'S  twice-blowing  roses  ;  while,  within, 
Parents  and  children  mourned  —  and,  every  year 
('Twas  on  the  day  of  some  old  festival), 
Met  to  give  way  to  tears,  and  once  again 
Talk  in  the  ancient  tongue  of  things  gone  by.3**" 
At  length  an  Arab  climbed  the  battlements, 
Slaying  the  sleepers  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
And  from  all  eyes  the  glorious  vision  fled ! 
LeaviDg  a  place  lonely  and  dangerous, 
Where  whom  the  robber  spares,  a  deadlier  foe307 
Strikes  at  unseen  —  and  at  a  time  when  joy 
Opens  the  heart,  when  summer-skies  are  blue, 
And  the  clear  air  is  soft  and  delicate  ; 
For  then  the  demon  works  —  then  with  that  air 


408  ITALY. 

The  thoughtless  wretch  drinks  in  a  subtle  poison 
Lulling  to  sleep  ;  and,  when  he  sleeps,  he  dies. 

But  what  are  these  still  standing  in  the  midst  1 
The  earth  has  rocked  beneath  ;  the  thunder-bolt 
Passed  through  and  through,  and  left  its  traces  there; 
Yet  still  they  stand  as  by  some  unknown  charter  ! 
0,  they  are  Nature's  own  !  and,  as  allied 
To  the  vast  mountains  and  the  eternal  sea, 
They  want  no  written  history ;  theirs  a  voice 
Forever  speaking  to  the  heart  of  man  ! 


AMALFI. 

HE  who  sets  sail  from  NAPLES,  when  the  wind 
Blows  fragrance  from  POSILIPO,  may  soon, 
Crossing  from  side  to  side  that  beautiful  lake, 
Land  underneath  the  cliff  where,  once  among 
The  children  gathering  shells  along  the  shore, 
One  laughed  and  played,  unconscious  of  his  fate ; 
His  to  drink  deep  of  sorrow,  and,  through  life, 
To  be  the  scorn  of  them  that  knew  him  not, 
Trampling  alike  the  giver  and  his  gift, 
The  gift  a  pearl  precious,  inestimable, 
A  lay  divine,  a  lay  of  love  and  war, 
To  charm,  ennoble,  and,  from  age  to  age, 
Sweeten  the  labor  when  the  oar  was  plied 
Or  on  the  ADRIAN  or  the  TUSCAN  sea. 

There  would  I  linger  —  then  go  forth  again, 
And  hover  round  that  region  unexplored, 
Where  to  SALVATOR  (when,  as  some  relate, 
By  chance  or  choice  he  led  a  bandit's  life, 


AMALFI.  409 

Yet  oft  withdrew,  alone  and  unobserved, 
To  wander  through  those  awful  solitudes) 
Nature  revealed  herself.     Unveiled  she  stood 
In  all  her  wildness,  all  her  majesty, 
As  in  that  elder  time  ere  man  was  made. 

There  would  I  linger  —  then  go  forth  again; 
And  he  who  steers  due  east,  doubling  the  cape, 
Discovers,  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock, 
The  fishing-town,  AMALFI.     Haply  there 
A  heaving  bark,  an  anchor  on  the  strand, 
May  tell  him  what  it  is  ;  but  what  it  was 
Cannot  be  told  so  soon.309 

The  time  has  been, 

When  on  the  quays  along  the  SYRIAN  coast 
'T  was  asked,  and  eagerly,  at  break  of  dawn, 
"  What  ships  are  from  AMALFI  1  "  when  her  coins, 
Silver  and  gold,  circled  from  clime  to  clime ; 
From  ALEXANDRIA  southward  to  SENNAAR, 
And  eastward,  through  DAMASCUS  and  CABUL 
And  SAM  ARC  AND,  to  thy  great  wall,  CATHAY.310 

Then  were  the  nations  by  her  wisdom  swayed  ; 
And  every  crime  on  every  sea  was  judged 
According  to  her  judgments.     In  her  port 
Prows,  strange,  uncouth,  from  NILE  and  NIGER  met, 
People  of  various  feature,  various  speech  ; 
And  in  their  countries  many  a  house  of  prayer, 
And  many  a  shelter,  where  no  shelter  was, 
And  many  a  well,  like  JACOB'S  in  the  wild, 
Rose  at  her  bidding.     Then  in  PALESTINE, 
By  the  way-side,  in  sober  grandeur  stood 
A  hospital,  that,  night  and  day,  received 
The  pilgrims  of  the  west ;  and,  when  't  was  asked, 
35 


410  ITALY. 

"  Who  are  the  noble  founders  ?  "  every  tongue 
At  once  replied,   "  The  merchants  of  AMALFI." 
That  hospital,  when  GODFREY  scaled  the  walls, 
Sent  forth  its  holy  men  in  complete  steel ; 
And  hence,  the  cowl  relinquished  for  the  helm, 
That  chosen  band,  valiant,  invincible, 
So  long  renowned  as  champions  of  the  cross. 
In  RHODES,  in  MALTA. 

For  three  hundred  years 

There,  unapproached  but  from  the  deep,  they  dwelt ; 
Assailed  forever,  yet  from  age  to  age 
Acknowledging  no  master.     From  the  deep 
They  gathered  in  their  harvests ;  bringing  home, 
In  the  same  ship,  relics  of  ancient  GREECE, 
That  land  of  glory  where  their  fathers  lay, 
Grain  from  the  golden  vales  of  SiciLY,311 
And  IXDIAX  spices.     Through  the  civilized  world 
Their  credit  was  ennobled  into  fame ; 
And,  when  at  length  they  fell,  they  left  mankind 
A  legacy,  compared  with  which  the  wealth 
Of  Eastern  kings  —  what  is  it  in  the  scale  ?  — 
The  mariner's  compass. 

They  are  now  forgot. 

And  with  them  all  they  did,  all  they  endured, 
Struggling  with  fortune.     When  SICARDI  stood 
On  his  high  deck,  his  falchion  in  his  hand, 
And,  with  a  shout  like  thunder,  cried,  "  Come  forth, 
And  serve  me  in  SALERXO  !  "  forth  they  came, 
Covering  the  sea,  a  mournful  spectacle ; 
The  women  wailing,  and  the  heavy  oar 
Falling  unheard.     Not  thus  did  they  return,312 


MOXTE    GASSING.  411 

The  tyrant  slain ;  though  then  the  grass  of  years 
Grew  in  their  streets. 

There  now  to  him  who  sails 
Under  the  shore,  a  few  white  villages 
Scattered  above,  below,  some  in  the  clouds. 
Some  on  the  margin  of  the  dark-blue  sea 
And  glittering  through  their  lemon-groves,  announce 
The  region  of  AMALFI.     Then,  half-fallen, 

A  lonely  watch-tower  on  the  precipice, 
Their  ancient  landmark,  cornes.     Long  may  it  last ; 
And  to  the  seaman  in  a  distant  age, 
Though  now  he  little  thinks  how  large  his  debt. 
Serve  for  their  monument ! 813 


MONTE  CASSINO.314 

"WHAT  hangs  behind  that  curtain?"315—  "Wouldst  thou 

learn  ? 

If  thou.  art  wise,  thou  wouldst  not.     'T  is  by  some 
Believed  to  be  his  master- work  who  looked 
Beyond  the  grave,  and  on  the  chapel- wall, 
As  though  the  day  were  come,  were  come  and  past, 
Drew  the  Last  Judgment.810     But  the  wisest  err. 
He  who  in  secret  wrought,  and  gave  it  life, 
For  life  is  surely  there  and  visible  change,317 
Life  such  as  none  could  of  himself  impart 
(They  who  behold  it  go  not  as  they  came, 
But  meditate  for  many  and  many  a  day), 
Sleeps  in  the  vault  beneath.     We  know  not  much ; 
But  what  we  know  we  will  communicate. 


412  ITALY. 

'T  is  in  an  ancient  record  of  the  house  ; 

And  may  it  make  thee  tremble,  lest  thou  fall ! 

Once  —  on  a  Christmas-eve  —  ere  yet  the  roof 
Rung  with  the  hymn  of  the  Nativity, 
There  came  a  stranger  to  the  convent-gate, 
And  asked  admittance  ;  ever  and  anon, 
As  if  he  sought  what  most  he  feared  to  find, 
Looking  behind  him.     When  within  the  walls, 
These  walls  so  sacred  and  inviolate, 
Still  did  he  look  behind  him ;  oft  and  long, 
With  curling,  quivering  lip  and  haggard  eye, 
Catching  at  vacancy.     Between  the  fits, 
For  here,  't  is  said,  he  lingered  while  he  lived, 
He  would  discourse,  and  with  a  mastery, 
A  charm  by  none  resisted,  none  explained, 
Unfelt  before ;  but  when  his  cheek  grew  pale 
(Nor  was  the  respite  longer,  if  so  long, 
Than  while  a  shepherd  in  the  vale  below 
Counts,  as  he  folds,  five  hundred  of  his  flock), 
All  was  forgotten.     Then,  howe'er  employed, 
He  would  break  off  and  start  as  if  he  caught 
A  glimpse  of  something  that  would  not  be  gone ; 
And  turn  and  gaze  and  shrink  into  himself, 
As  though  the  "fiend  were  there,  and,  face  to  face, 
Scowled  o'er  his  shoulder. 

Most  devout  he  was ; 
Most  unremitting  in  the  services ; 
Then,  only  then,  untroubled,  unassailed ; 
And,  to  beguile  a  melancholy  hour, 
Would  sometimes  exercise  that  noble  art 
He  learnt  in  FLORENCE  ;  with  a  master's  hand, 
As  to  this  day  the  sacristy  attests, 
Painting  the  wonders  of  the  APOCALYPSE. 


THE   HARPER.  413 

At  length  he  sunk  to  rest,  and  in  his  cell 
Left,  when  he  went,  a  work  in  secret  done, 
The  portrait,  for  a  portrait  it  must  be, 
That  hangs  behind  the  curtain.     Whence  he  drew, 
None  here  can  doubt ;  for  they  that  come  to  catch 
The  faintest  glimpse  —  to  catch  it  and  be  gone  — 
Gaze  as  he  gazed,  then  shrink  into  themselves, 
Acting  the  self-same  part.     But  why  'twas  drawn, 
Whether,  in  penance,  to  atone  for  guilt, 
Or  to  record  the  anguish  guilt  inflicts. 
Or,  haply,  to  familiarize  his  mind 
With  what  he  could  not  fly  from,  none  can  say, 
For  none  could  learn  the  burden  of  his  soul." 


THE  HARPER. 

IT  was  a  harper,  wandering  with  his  harp, 
His  only  treasure ;  a  majestic  man, 
By  time  and  grief  ennobled,  not  subdued  ; 
Though  from  his  height  descending,  day  by  day, 
And,  as  his  upward  look  at  once  betrayed, 
Blind  as  old  HOMER.     At  a  fount  he  sate, 
Well  known  to  many  a  weary  traveller ; 
His  little  guide,  a  boy  not  seven  years  old, 
But  grave,  considerate  beyond  his  years, 
Sitting  beside  him.     Each  had  ate  his  crust 
In  silence,  drinking  of  the  virgin-spring ; 
And  now  in  silence,  as  their  custom  was, 
The  sun's  decline  awaited. 

But  the  child 

Was  worn  with  travel.     Heavy  sleep  weighed  down 
35* 


-T-r 


414  ITALY. 

His  eyelids ;  and  the  grandsire,  when  we  came, 
Emboldened  by  his  love  and  by  his  fear. 
His  fear  lest  night  o'ertake  them  on  the  road, 
Humbly  besought  me  to  convey  them  both 
A  little  onward.     Such  small  services 
Who  can  refuse  ?  —  Not  I ;  and  him  who  can, 
Blest  though  he  be  with  every  earthly  gift, 
I  cannot  envy.     He,  if  wealth  be  his, 
Knows  not  its  uses.     So  from  noon  till  night, 
Within  a  crazed  and  tattered  vehicle,318 
That  yet  displayed,  in  rich  emblazonry, 
A  shield  as  splendid  as  the  BARDI  wear,319 
We  lumbered  on  together  ;  the  old  man 
Beguiling  many  a  league  of  half  its  length, 
When  questioned  the  adventures  of  his  life, 
And  all  the  dangers  he  had  undergone  ; 
His  shipwrecks  on  inhospitable  coasts, 
And  his  long  warfare. — They  were  bound,  he  said, 
To  a  great  fair  at  REGGIO  ;  and  the  boy, 
Believing  all  the  world  were  to  be  the^e, 
And  I  among  the  rest,  let  loose  his  tongue, 
And  promised  me  much  pleasure.     His  short  trance, 
Short  as  it  was,  had,  like  a  charmed  cup, 
Restored  his  spirit,  and,  as  on  we  crawled, 
Slow  as  the  snail  (my  muleteer  dismounting, 
And  now  his  mules  addressing,  now  his  pipe, 
And  now  Luigi),  he  poured  out  his  heart, 
Largely  repaying  me.     At  length  the  sun 
Departed,  setting  in  a  sea  of  gold ; 
And,  as  we  gazed,  he  bade  me  rest  assured 
That  like  the  setting  would  the  rising  be. 
Their  harp  —  it  had  a  voice  oracular, 


THE   FELUCCA.  415 

And  in  the  desert,  in  the  crowded  street, 
Spoke  when  consulted.     If  the  treble  chord 
Twanged  shrill  and  clear,  o'er  hill  and  dale  they  went. 
The  grandsire,  step  by  step,  led  by  the  child ; 
And  not  a  rain-drop  from  a  passing  cloud 
Fell  on  their  garments.     Thus  it  spoke  to-day ; 
Inspiring  joy,  and,  in  the  young  one's  mind, 
Brightening  a  path  already  full  of  sunshine. 


THE  FELUCCA.320 

DAY  glimmered ;  and  beyond  the  precipice 
(Which  my  mule  followed  as  in  love  with  fear, 
Or  as  in  scorn,  yet  more  and  more  inclining 
To  tempt  the  danger  where  it  menaced  most) 
A  sea  of  vapor  rolled.     Methought  we  went 
Along  the  utmost  edge  of  this,  our  world, 
And  the  next  step  had  hurled  us  headlong  down 
Into  the  wild  and  infinite  abyss ; 
But  soon  the  surges  fled,  and  we  descried, 
Nor  dimly,  though  the  lark  was  silent  yet, 
Thy  gulf,  LA  SPEZZIA.     Ere  the  morning-gun, 
Ere  the  first  day -streak,  we  alighted  there ; 
And  not  a  breath,  a  murmur  !     Every  sail 
Slept  in  the  offing.     Yet  along  the  shore 
Great  was  the  stir ;  as  at  the  noontide  hour, 
None  unemployed.     Where  from  its  native  rock 
A  streamlet,  clear  and  full,  ran  to  the  sea, 
The  maidens  knelt  and  sung  as  they  were  wont, 
Washing  their  garments.     Where  it  met  the  tide, 
Sparkling  and  lost,  an  ancient  pinnace  lay 


416  ITALY. 

Keel  upward,  and  the  fagot  blazed,  the  tar 
Fumed  from  the  caldron  ;  while,  .beyond  the  fort, 
Whither  I  wandered,  step  by  step  led  on, 
-     The  fishers  dragged  their  net,  the  fish  within 
At  every  heave  fluttering  and  full  of  life, 
At  every  heave  striking  their  silver  fins 
'Gainst  the  dark  meshes. 

Soon  a  boatman's  shout 
Reechoed  ;  and  red  bonnets  on  the  beach, 
Waving,  recalled  me.     We  embarked  and  left 
That  noble  haven,  where,  when  GEXOA  reigned, 
A  hundred  galleys  sheltered  —  in  the  day 
When  lofty  spirits  met,  and,  deck  to  deck, 
Do  HI  A,  Pis  AN  i'3-1  fought:  that  narrow  field 
Ample  enough  for  glory.     On  we  went, 
Ruffling  with  many  an  oar  the  crystalline  sea, 
On  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun 
In  silence  —  underneath  a  mountain-ridge, 
Untamed,  untamable,  reflecting  round 
The  saddest  purple ;  nothing  to  be  seen 
Of  life  or  culture,  save  where,  at  the  foot, 
Some  village  and  its  church,  a  scanty  line, 
Athwart  the  wave  gleamed  faintly.     Fear  of  ill 
Narrowed  our  course,  fear  of  the  hurricane, 
And  that  still  greater  scourge,  the  crafty  Moor, 
Who,  like  a  tiger  prowling  for  his  prey, 
Springs  and  is  gone,  and  on  the  adverse  coast 
(Where  TRIPOLI  and  TUNIS  and  ALGIERS 
Forge  fetters,  and  white  turbans  on  the  mole 
Gather  whene'er  the  crescent  comes  displayed 
Over  the  cross)  his  human  merchandise 
To  many  a  curious,  many  a  cruel  eye 


THE   FELUCCA.  417 

Exposes.     Ah  !  how  oft,  where  now  the  sun 

Slept  on  the  shore,  have  ruthless  scimitars 

Flashed  through  the  lattice,  and  a  swarthy  crew 

Dragged  forth,  ere  long  to  number  them  for  sale, 

Ere  long  to  part  them  in  their  agony, 

Parent  and  child  !     How  oft,  where  now  we  rode 322 

Over  the  billow,  has  a  wretched  son, 

Or  yet  more  wretched  sire,  grown  gray  in  chains, 

Labored,  his  hands  upon  the  oar,  his  eyes 

Upon  the  land  —  the  land  that  gave  him  birth  • 

And,  as  he  gazed,  his  homestall  through  his  tears 

Fondly  imagined ;  when  a  Christian  ship 

Of  war  appearing  in  her  bravery, 

A  voice  in  anger  cried,   "  Use  all  your  strength  !  " 

But  when,  ah  !  when  do  they  that  can,  forbear 
To  crush  the  unresisting  ?     Strange,  that  men, 
Creatures  so  frail,  so  soon,  alas  !  to  die, 
Should  have  the  power,  the  will  to  make  this  world 
A  dismal  prison-house,  and  life  itself, 
Life  in  its  prime,  a  burden  and  a  curse 
To  him  who  never  wronged  them  !    Who  that  breathes 
Would  not,  when  first  he  heard  it,  turn  away 
As  from  a  tale  monstrous,  incredible  'I 
Surely  a  sense  of  our  mortality, 
A  consciousness  how  soon  we  shall  be  gone, 
Or,  if  we  linger  —  but  a  few  short  years  — 
How  sure  to  look  upon  our  brother's  grave, 
Should  of  itself  incline  to  pity  and  love, 
And  prompt  us  rather  to  assist,  relieve, 
Than  aggravate  the  evils  each  is  heir  to. 

At  length  the  day  departed,  and  the  moon 
Rose  like  another  sun,  illumining 


418  ITALY. 

Waters  and  woods  and  cloud-capt  promontories, 
Glades  for  a  hermit's  cell,  a  lady's  bower, 
Scenes  of  Elysium,  such  as  Night  alone 
Reveals  below,  nor  often  * —  scenes  that  fled 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  wizard's  wand, 
And  left  behind  them,  as  their  parting  gift, 
A  thousand  nameless  odors.     All  was  still ; 
And  now  the  nightingale  her  song  poured  forth 
In  such  a  torrent  of  heart-felt  delight, 
So  fast  it  flowed,  her  tongue  so  voluble, 
As  if  she  thought  her  hearers  would  be  gone 
Ere  half  was  told.     'T  was  where  in  the  north-west, 
•    Still  unassailed  and  unassailable, 
Thy  pharos,  GENOA,  first  displayed  itself, 
Burning  in  stillness  on  its  craggy  seat ; 
That  guiding  star  so  oft  the  only  one, 
When  those  now  glowing  in  the  azure  vault 
Are  dark  and  silent.     'T  was  where  o'er  the  sea 
(For  we  were  now  within  a  cable's  length) 
Delicious  gardens  hung  ;  green  galleries, 
And  marble  terraces  in  many  a  flight, 
And  fairy  arches  flung  from  cliff  to  cliff, 
Wildering,  enchanting  ;  and,  above  them  all, 
A  palace,  such  as  somewhere  in  the  East, 
In  Zenastan  or  Araby  the  blest, 
Among  its  golden  groves  and  fruits  of  gold, 
And  fountains  scattering  rainbows  in  the  sky, 
Rose,  when  ALADDIN  rubbed  the  wondrous  lamp ; 
Such,  if  not  fairer  ;  and,  when  we  shot  by, 
A  scene  of  revelry,  in  long  array 
As  with  the  radiance  of  a  setting  sun, 
The  windows  blazing.     But  we  now  approached 
A  city  far-renowned  ;  and  wonder  ceased. 


GENOA.  419 


GENOA. 

THIS  house  was  ANDREA  DoRiA's.323   Here  he  lived;32 
And  here  at  eve  relaxing,  when  ashore, 
Held  many  a  pleasant,  many  a  grave  discourse 
With  them  that  sought  him,  walking  to  and  fro 
As  on  his  deck.     'T  is  less  in  length  and  breadth 
Than  many  a  cabin  in  a  ship  of  war  ; 
But  't  is  of  marble,  and  at  once  inspires 
The  reverence  due  to  ancient  dignity. 

He  left  it  for  a  better  ;  and  'tis  now 
A  house  of  trade,323  the  meanest  merchandise 
Cumbering  its  floors.     Yet,  fallen  as  it  is, 
;Tis  still  the  noblest  dwelling  —  even  in  GENOA! 
And  hadst  thou,  ANDREA,  lived  there  'to  the  last, 
Thou  hadst  done  well ;  for  there  is  that  without, 
That  in  the  wall,  which  monarchs  could  not  give, 
Nor  thou  take  with  thee, —  that  which  says  aloud, 
It  was  thy  country's  gift  to  her  deliverer. 

'T  is  in  the  heart  of  GENOA  (he  who  comes, 
Must  come  on  foot),  and  in  a  place  of  stir  ; 
Men  on  their  daily  business,  early  and  late, 
Thronging  thy  very  threshold.     But,  when  there, 
Thou  wert  among  thy  fellow-citizens, 
Thy  children,  for  they  hailed  thee  as  their  sire  ; 
And  on  a  spot  thou  must  have  loved,  for  there. 
Calling  them  round,  thou  gav'st  them  more  than  life, 
Giving  what,  lost,  makes  life  not  worth  the  keeping. 
There  thou  didst  do  indeed  an  act  divine  ; 
Nor  couldst  thou  leave  thy  door  or  enter  in, 
Without  a  blessing  on  thee. 


420  ITALY. 

Thou  art  now 

Again  among  them.     Thy  brave  mariners, 
They  who  had  fought  so  often  by  thy  side, 
Staining  the  mountain-billows,  bore  thee  back ; 
And  thou  art  sleeping  in  thy  funeral-chamber. 

Thine  was  a  glorious  course ;  but  couldst  thou  there, 
Clad  in  thy  cere-cloth  —  in  that  silent  vault, 
Where  thou  art  gathered  to  thy  ancestors  — 
Open  thy  secret  heart  and  tell  us  all, 
Then  should  we  hear  thee  with  a  sigh  confess, 
A  sigh  how  heavy,  that  thy  happiest  hours 
Were  passed  before  these  sacred  walls  were  left, 
Before  the  ocean-wave  thy  wealth  reflected,326  • 
And  pomp  and  power  drew  envy,  stirring  up 
The  ambitious  man,327  that  in  a  perilous  hour 
Fell  from  the  plank. 


MARCO   GRIFFON!. 

WAR  is  a  game  at  which  all  are  sure  to  lose,  sooner  or 
later,  play  they  how  they  will ;  yet  every  nation  has  de 
lighted  in  war,  and  none  more,  in  their  day,  than  the  little 
republic  of  GENOA,  whose  galleys,  while  she  had  any,  were 
always  burning  and  sinking  those  of  the  Pisans,  the  Vene 
tians,  the  Greeks,  or  the  Turks ;  Christian  and  Infidel 
alike  to  her. 

But  experience,  when  dearly  bought,  is  seldom  thrown 
away  altogether.  A  moment  of  sober  reflection  carne  at 
last ;  and,  after  a  victory  the  most  splendid  and  ruinous  of 
any  in  her  annals,  she  resolved  from  that  day  and  forever 
to  live  at  peace  with  all  mankind ;  having  in  her  long  career 


MARCO    GRIFFONI.  421 

acquired  nothing  but  glory  and  a  tax  on  every  article  of 
life. 

Peace  came,  but  with  none  of  its  blessings.  No  stir  in 
the  harbor,  no  merchandise  in  the  mart  or  on  the  quay ;  no 
song  as  the  shuttle  was  thrown  or  the  ploughshare  broke 
the  furrow.  The  frenzy  had  left  a  languor  more  alarming 
than  itself.  Yet  the  burden  must  be  borne,  the  taxes  be 
gathered ;  and,  year  after  year,  they  lay  like  a  curse  on 
the  land,  the  prospect  on  every  side  growing  darker  and 
darker,  till  an  old  man  entered  the  senate-house  on  his 
crutches,  and  all  was  changed. 

MARCO  GRIFFONI  was  the  last  of  an  ancient  family, 
a  family  of  royal  merchants ;  and  the  richest  citizen  in 
GENOA,  perhaps  in  Europe.  His  parents  dying  while  yet 
he  lay  in  the  cradle,  his  wealth  had  accumulated  from  the 
year  of  his  birth  ;  and  so  noble  a  use  did  he  make  of  it 
when  he  arrived  at  manhood,  that  wherever  he  went  he 
was  followed  by  the  blessings  of  the  people.  He  would 
often  say,  "  I  hold  it  only  in  trust  for  others  ;"  but  GENOA 
was  then  at  her  old  amusement,  and  the  work  grew  on  his 
hands.  Strong  as  he  was,  the  evil  he  had  to  struggle  with 
was  stronger  than  he.  His  cheerfulness,  his  alacrity,  left 
him  ;  and,  having  lifted  up  his  voice  for  peace,  he  with 
drew  at  once  from  the  sphere  of  life  he  had  moved  in  —  to 
become,  as  it  were,  another  man. 

From  that  time,  and  for  full  fifty  years,  he  was  to  be  seen 
sitting,  like  one  of  the  founders  of  his  house,  at  his  desk 
among  his  money-bags,  in  a  narrow  street  near  the  Porto 
Franco  ;  and  he,  who  in  a  famine  had  filled  the  granaries 
of  the  state,  sending  to  Sicily,  and  even  to  Egypt,  now  lived 
only  as  for  his  heirs,  though  there  were  none  to  inherit ; 
giving  no  longer  to  any,  but  lending  to  all  —  to  the  rich 
36 


422  ITALY. 

on  their  bonds  and  the  poor  on  their  pledges ;  lending  at 
the  highest  rate,  and  exacting  with  the  utmost  rigor.  No 
longer  relieving  the  miserable,  he  sought  only  to  enrich 
himself  by  their  misery ;  and  there  he  sate  in  his  gown  of 
frieze,  till  every  finger  was  pointed  at  him  in  passing,  and 
every  tongue  exclaimed,  "  There  sits  the  miser  !  " 

But  in  that  character,  and  amidst  all  that  obloquy,  he  was 
still  the  same  as  ever,  still  acting  to  the  best  of  his  judg 
ment  for  the  good  of  his  fellow-citizens ;  and  when  the 
measure  of  their  calamities  was  full, —  when  peace  had  come, 
but  had  come  to  no  purpose,  and  the  lesson,  as  he  nattered 
himself,  was  graven  deep  in  their  minds, —  then,  but  not  till 
then,  though  his  hair  had  long  grown  gray,  he  threw  off  the 
mask  and  gave  up  all  he  had,  to  annihilate  at  a  blow  his 
great  and  cruel  adversaries,328  those  taxes  which,  when  ex 
cessive,  break  the  hearts  of  the  people ;  a  glorious  achieve 
ment  for  an  individual,  though  a  bloodless  one,  and  such  as 
only  can  be  conceived  possible  in  a  small  community  like 
theirs. 

Alas  !  how  little  did  he  know  of  human  nature  !  How 
little  had  he  reflected  on  the  ruling  passion  of  his  country 
men,  so  injurious  to  others,  and  at  length  so  fatal  to  them 
selves  !  Almost  instantly  they  grew  arrogant  and  quarrel 
some;  almost  instantly  they  were  in  arms  again ;  and,  before 
the  statue  was  up  that  had  been  voted  to  his  memory,  every 
tax,  if  we  may  believe  the  historian,3-'9  was  laid  on  as  before, 
to  awaken  vain  regrets  and  wise  resolutions. 


A  FAKEWELL.  423 


A  FAREWELL.880 

AND  now  farewell  to  ITALY  —  perhaps 
Forever  !     Yet,  methinks,  I  could  not  go, 

I  could  not  leave  it,  were  it  mine  to  say, 

II  Farewell  forever!  "     Many  a  courtesy, 
That  sought  no  recompense,  and  met  with  none 
But  in  the  swell  of  heart  with  which  it  came, 
Have  I  experienced ;  not  a  cabin-door, 

Go  where  I  would,  but  opened  with  a  smile ; 
From  the  first  hour,  when,  in  my  long  descent, 
Strange  perfumes  rose,  rose  as  to  welcome  me, 
From  flowers  that  ministered  like  unseen  spirits; 
From  the  first  hour,  when  vintage-songs  broke  forth, 
A  grateful  earnest,  and  the  southern  lakes, 
Dazzlingly  bright,  unfolded  at  my  feet ; 
They  that  receive  the  cataracts,  and  ere  long 
Dismiss  them,  but  how  changed  —  onward  to  roll 
From  age  to  age  in  silent  majesty, 
Blessing  the  nations,  and  reflecting  round 
The  gladness  they  inspire. 

Gentle  or  rude, 

No  scene  of  life  but  has  contributed 
Much  to  remember — from  the  POLESINE, 
Where,  when  the  south-wind  blows  and  clouds  on  clouds 
Gather  and  fall,  the  peasant  freights  his  boat, 
A  sacred  ark,  slung  in  his  orchard-grove ; 
Mindful  to  migrate  when  the  king  of  floods™ 
Visits  his  humble  dwelling,  and  the  keel, 
Slowly  uplifted  over  field  and  fence, 
Floats  on  a  world  of  waters  —  from  that  low, 


424  ITALY. 

That  level  region,  where  no  echo  dwells, 
Or,  if  she  comes,  comes  in  her  saddest  plight, 
Hoarse,  inarticulate  —  on  to  where  the  path 
Is  lost  in  rank  luxuriance,  and  to  breathe 
Is  to  inhale  distemper,  if  not  death ;  ^ 
Where  the  wild-boar  retreats,  when  hunters  chafe, 
And,  when  the  day-star  flames,  the  buffalo-herd. 
Afflicted,  plunge  into  the  stagnant  pool, 
Nothing  discerned  amid  the  water-leaves, 
Save  here  and  there  the  likeness  of  a  head, 
Savage,  uncouth ;  where  none  in  human  shape 
Come,  save  the  herdsman,  levelling  his  length 
Of  lance  with  many  a  cry,  or,  Tartar-like, 
Urging  his  steed  along  the  distant  hill 
As  from  a  danger.     There,  but  not  to  rest, 
I  travelled  many  a  dreary  league,  nor  turned 
(Ah  !  then  least  willing,  as  who  had  not  been  ?) 
When  in  the  south,  against  the  azure  sky, 
Three  temples  rose  in  soberest  majesty, 
The  wondrous  work  of  some  heroic  race.333 

But  now  a  long  farewell !     Oft,  while  I  live; 
If  once  again  in  England,  once  again334 
In  my  own  chimney-nook,  as  Night  steals  on, 
With  half-shut  eyes  reclining,  oft,  me  thinks, 
While  the  wind  blusters  and  the  drenching  rain 
Clatters  without,  shall  I  recall  to  mind 
The  scenes,  occurrences,  I  met  with  here, 
And  wander  in  Elysium ;  many  a  note 
Of  wildest  melody,  magician-like 
Awakening,  such  as  the  CALABRIAN  horn 
Along  the  mountain -side,  when  all  is  still, 
Pours  forth  at  folding-time ;  and  many  a  chant, 


ITALY.  425 

Solemn,  sublime,  such  as  at  midnight  flows 
From  the  full  choir,  when  richest  harmonies 
Break  the  deep  silence  of  thy  glens,  LA  CAVA  ; 
To  him  who  lingers  there  with  listening  ear 
Now  lost  and  now  descending  as  from  Heaven  ! 


AND  now  a  parting  word  is  due  from  him 

Who,  in  the  classic  fields  of  ITALY 

(If  haply  thou  hast  borne  with  him  so  long), 

Through  many  a  grove  by  many  a  fount  has  led  thee, 

By  many  a  temple  half  as  old  as  Time ; 

Where  all  was  still  awakening  them  that  slept, 

And  conjuring  up  where  all  was  desolate, 

Where  kings  were  mouldering  in  their  funeral  urns, 

And  oft  and  long  the  vulture  flapped  his  wing  — 

Triumphs  and  masques. 

Nature  denied  him  much, 

But  gave  him  at  his  birth  what  most  he  values ; 
A  passionate  love  for  music,  sculpture,  painting, 
For  poetry,  the  language  of  the  gods, 
For  all  things  here,  or  grand  or  beautiful, 
A  setting  sun,  a  lake  among  the  mountains. 
The  light  of  an  ingenuous  countenance, 
And,  what  transcends  them  all,  a  noble  action.335 
Nature  denied  him  much,  but  gave  him  more ; 
And  ever,  ever  grateful  should  he  be, 
Though  from  his  cheek,  ere  yet  the  down  was  there, 
Health  fled;  for  in  his  heaviest  hours  would  come 
Gleams  such  as  come  not  now ;  nor  failed  he  then 
(Then  and  through  life  his  happiest  privilege) 
36* 


426  ITALY. 

Full  oft  to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  song. 

'T  is  now  long  since; 

And  now,  while  yet  't  is  day,  would  he  withdraw, 
Who,  when  in  youth  he  strung  his  lyre,  addressed 
A  former  generation.     Many  an  eye, 
Bright  as  the  brightest  now,  is  closed  in  night, 
And  many  a  voice,  how  eloquent,  is  mute, 
That,  when  he  came,  disdained  not  to  receive 
His  lays  with  favor.     ***** 

1839. 


NOTES. 


(1)  J.  J.  ROUSSEAU.    "  J'arrive  essouffl6,  tout  en  nage  ;  le  coeur  me  bat  •,  je  vois  de 
loin  lea  soldats  d  leur  poste  ;  j'accours,  je  crie  d'une  voix  (Houff'e'e.    II  6toit  trop  tard."  — 
Les  Confessions,  1.  i. 

(2)  "  Lines  of  eleven  syllables  occur  almost  in  every  page  of  Milton  ;  but  though  they 
are  not  unpleasing,  they  ought  not  to  be  admitted  into  heroic  poetry  ;  since  the  narrow 
limits  of  our  language  allow  us  no  other  distinction  of  epic  and  tragic  measures."  — 
Johnson. 

It  is  remarkable  that  he  used  them  most  at  last.  In  the  Paradise  Regained  they  occur 
oftener  than  in  the  Paradise  Lost  in  the  proportion  of  ten  to  one  ;  and  let  it  be  remem 
bered  that  they  supply  us  with  another  close,  —  another  cadence,  —  that  they  add,  as  it 
were,  a  string  to  the  instrument ;  and,  by  enabling  the  poet  to  relax  at  pleasure,  to  rise 
and  fall  with  his  subject,  contribute  what  is  most  wanted,  compass,  variety. 

Shakspeare  seems  to  have  delighted  in  them,  and  in  some  of  his  soliloquies  has  used 
them  four  and  five  times  in  succession  ;  an  example  I  have  not  followed  in  mine.     As  in 
the  following  instance,  where  the  subject  is  solemn  beyond  all  others  : 
"  To  be,  or  not  to  be,"  £c. 

They  come  nearest  to  the  flow  of  an  unstudied  eloquence,  and  should  therefore  be  used 
in  the  drama  ;  but  why  exclusively  ?  Horace,  as  we  learn  from  himself,  admitted  the 
Musa  Pedestris  in  his  happiest  hours,  in  those  when  he  was  most  at  his  ease  ;  and  we 
cannot  regret  her  visits.  To  her  we  are  indebted  for  more  than  half  he  has  left  us  ;  nor 
was  she  ever  at  his  elbow  in  greater  dishabille  than  when  he  wrote  the  celebrated  Journey 
to  Brundusium. 

(3)  BERNARD,  Abbot  of  Clairvaux.    "  To  admire  or  despise  St.  Bernard  as  he  ought," 
says  Gibbon,  "  the  reader,  like  myself,  should  have  before  the  windows  of  his  library  that 
incomparable  landscape." 

(4)  The  following  lines  were  written  on  the  spot,  and  may  serve  perhaps  to  recall  to 
some  of  my  readers  what  they  have  seen  in  this  enchanting  country. 

I  love  to  watch  in  silence  till  the  sun 
Sets  •,  and  MONT  BLANC,  arrayed  in  crimson  and  gold, 
Flings  his  gigantic  shadow  o'er  the  lake  ; 
That  shadow,  though  it  comes  through  pathless  tracts, 
Only  less  bright,  less  glorious  than  himself. 
But,  while  we  gaze,  'tis  gone  !     And  now  he  shines 
Like  burnished  silver  ;  all,  below,  the  Night's. 

Such  moments  are  most  precious.    Yet  there  are 
Others  that  follow  fast,  more  precious  still ; 


428  NOTES. 


When  once  again  he  changes,  once  again 
Clothing  himself  in  grandeur  all  his  own  ; 
"When,  like  a  ghost,  shadowless,  colorless, 
He  melts  away  into  the  heaven  of  heavens  ; 
Himself  alone  revealed,  all  lesser  things 
As  though  they  were  not  and  had  never  been  ! 

(5)  The  Castle  of  Joux,  in  Franche-Comte. 

(6)  See  the  Odyssey,  lib.  xix.  v.  597,  and  lib.  xxiii.  v.  19 

(")  The  retreat  of  Amadeus,  the  first  Duke  of  Savoy.  Voltaire  thus  addresses  it  from 
his  windows  -. 

"  Ripaille,  je  te  vois.    0  bizarre  Amedee,"  &c. 
The  seven  towers  are  now  no  longer  a  landmark  to  the  voyager. 

(8)  Ludlow. 

(9)  He  has  given  us  a  very  natural  account  of  his  feelings  at  the  conclusion  of  his  long 
labor  there  :  "  It  was  on  the  night  of  the  27th  of  June,  1787,  between  the  hours  of  eleven 
and  twelve,  that  I  wrote  the  last  lines  of  the  last  page  in  a  summer-house  in  my  garden. 
After  laying  down  my  pen,  I  took  several  turns  in  a  berceau  or  covered  walk  of  acacias, 
which  commands  the  lake  and  the  mountains.    The  sky  was  serene,  the  moon  was  shining 
on  the  waters,  and  I  will  not  dissemble  my  joy.    But,  when  I  reflected  that  I  had  taken  an 
everlasting  leave  of  an  old  and  agreeable  companion,"  &c. 

There  must  always  be  something  melancholy  in  the  moment  of  separation,  as  all  have 
more  or  less  experienced  ;  none  more,  perhaps,  than  Cowper  :  "  And  now,"  says  he,  "  I 
have  only  to  regret  that  my  pleasant  work  is  ended.  To  the  illustrious  Greek  I  owe  the 
smooth  and  easy  flight  of  many  thousand  hours.  He  has  been  my  companion  at  home  and 
abroad,  in  the  study,  in  the  garden  and  in  the  field  ;  and  no  measure  of  success,  let  my 
labors  succeed  as  they  may,  will  ever  compensate  to  me  the  loss  of  the  innocent  luxury  that 
I  have  enjoyed,  as  a  translator  of  Homer." 

(10)  The  burial-place  of  Necker. 

(11)  The  Lake  of  the  Four  Cantons. 

(12)  In  the  course  of  the  year  they  entertain  from  thirty  to  thirty-five  thousand  travel 
lers.—  Le  Pi-re  Biselx,  Prieur. 

(13)  Alluding  to  Barri,  a  dog  of  great  renown  in  his  day.     He  is  here  admirably  repre 
sented  by  a  pencil  that  has  done  honor  to  many  of  his  kind,  but  to  none  who  deserved  it 
more.     His  skin  is  stuffed  and  preserved  in  the  Museum  of  Berne. 

(14)  The  Grande  Chartreuse.     It  was  indebted  for  its  foundation  to  a  miracle  ;  as  every 
guest  may  learn  there  from  a  little  book  that  lies  on  the  table  in  his  cell,  the  cell  allotted 
to  him  by  the  fathers. 

"  In  this  year  the  Canon  died,  and,  as  all  believed,  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  ;  for  who  in 
his  life  had  been  so  holy,  in  his  death  so  happy  ?  But  how  false  are  the  judgments  of 
men  !  For  when  the  hour  of  his  funeral  had  arrived,  when  the  mourners  had  entered  the 
church,  the  bearers  set  down  the  bier,  and  every  voice  was  lifted  up  in  the  Miserere,  sud 
denly,  and  as  none  knew  how,  the  lights  were  extinguished,  the  anthem  stopt !  A  dark 
ness  succeeded,  a  silence  as  of  the  grave  ;  and  these  words  came  in  sorrowful  accents  from 
the  lips  of  the  dead  :  '  I  am  summoned  before  a  just  God  !  .  .  .  A  just  God  judgeth  me  ! 
...  I  am  condemned  by  a  just  God  ! '  " 


NOTES.  429 


"  In  the  church,"  says  the  legend,  "  there  stood  a  young  man  with  his  hands  clasped  in 
prayer,  who,  from  that  time,  resolved  to  withdraw  into  the  desert.  It  was  he  whom  we 
now  invoke  as  St.  Bruno." 

(15)  Us  ont  la  mfime  longueur  que  1'^glise  de  Saint-Pierre  de  Rome,  et  ils  renferment 
quatre  cents  cellules. 

(Ifi)  Tallombrosa,  formerly  called  Acqua  Bella. 

(15")  The  words  of  Ariosto. 

una  badia 
Ricca  —  e  cortesa  a  chiunque  vi  vema. 

(18)  Ariosto  and  Milton.    Milton  was  there  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf. 

(19)  Not  that  I  felt  the  confidence  of  Erasmus,  when,  on  his  way  from  Paris  to  Turin,  he 
encountered  the  dangers  of  Mont  Cenis  in  1507  ;  when,  regardless  of  torrent  and  preci 
pice,  he  versified  as  he  went ;  composing  a  poem  on  horseback,*  and  writing  it  down  at 
intervals  as  he  sat  in  the  saddle,f  —  an  example,  I  imagine,  followed  by  few. 

Much,  indeed,  of  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  as  the  author  assured  me,  was  conceived 
and  executed  in  like  manner  on  his  journey  through  Greece  ;  but  the  work  was  performed 
in  less  unfavorable  circumstances  ;  for,  if  his  fits  of  inspiration  were  stronger,  he  travelled 
on  surer  ground. 

(20)  «  Many  able  men  have  served  under  me  ;  but  none  like  him.    He  loved  glory  for 
itself." 

(21)  The  Schreckhorn. 

(22)  The  Jung-frau. 

(23)  The  author  of  Lalla  Rookh,  a  poet  of  such  singular  felicity  as  to  give  a  lustre  to  all 
he  touches,  has  written  a  song  on  this  subject,  called  the  Crystal-hunters. 

(24)  M.  Ebel  mentions  an  escape  almost  as  miraculous.     "  L'an  1790,  Christian  Boren, 
propridtaire  de  1'auberge  du  Grindelwald,  cut  le  malheur  de  se  jeter  dans  une  fente  du 
glacier,  en  le  traversant  avec  un  troupeau  de  rnoutons  qu'il  ramenoit  des  pdturages  de 
Biimseck.    Heureusement  qu'ik  tomba  dans  le  voisinage  du  grand  torrent  qui  coule  dans 
Pinterieur,  il  en  suivit  le  lit  par  QQSSOUS  les  voutes  de  glace,  et  arriva  au  pied  du  glacier. 
Cet  homme  est  actuellement  encore  en  vie."  — Manuel  du  Voyageur. 

(25)  Lichen  geographicus. 

(20)  Almost  every  mountain  of  any  rank  or  condition  has  such  a  bridge.  The  most 
celebrated  in  this  country  is  on  the  Swiss  side  of  St.  Gothard. 

(27)  "When  may  not  our  minds  be  said  to  stream  into  each  other  f  for  how  much  by  the 
light  of  the  countenance  comes  from  the  child  to  the  mother  before  he  has  the  gift  of 
speech  ;  and  how  much  afterwards  in  like  manner  comes  to  console  us  and  to  cheer  us  in 
our  journey  through  life  5  for  when  even  to  the  last  cannot  we  give,  cannot  we  receive  what 
no  words  can  convey  ? 

And  is  not  this  the  universal  language,  —  the  language  of  all  nations  from  the  begin 
ning  of  time,  —  which  comes  with  the  breath  of  life,  nor  goes  till  life  itself  is  departing  ? 

(38)  A  tradition.    Gesler  said  to  him,  when  it  was  over,  "  You  had  a  second  arrow  in 

•  "  Carmen  equestre,  vel  potius  Alpestre."  —  Erasmus. 
t  "  Nolans  in  charta  super  sellam." — Idem. 


430  NOTES. 


your  belt.    What  was  it  for  ?  "  —  "To  kill  you,"  he  replied,  "  if  I  had  killed  my  son." 
There  is  a  monument  in  the  market-place  of  Altorf  to  consecrate  the  spot. 

(29)  The  Eagle  and  Child  is  a  favorite  sign  in  many  parts  of  Europe. 

(30)  "  J'aime  beaucoup  ce  tournoiement,  pourvu  que  je  sois  en  sfirete."  —  J.  J.  Rous 
seau,  Les  Confessions,  1.  iv. 

(31)  "  Ou  il  y  a  environ  dix  ans,  que  1'Abbe  de  St.  Maurice,  Mons.  Cocatrix,  a  et6 
precipite  avec  sa  voiture,  ses  chevaux,  sa  cuisiniere,  et  son  cocher."  —  Descript  du 
Calais. 

(32)  Originally  thus : 

I  love  to  sail  along  the  LARIAN  Lake 

Under  the  shore  —  though  not,  where'er  he  dwelt, 

To  visit  PLINY,  —  not,  where'er  he  dwelt, 

Whate'er  his  humor  ;  for  from  cliff  to  cliff, 

From  glade  to  glade,  adorning  as  he  went, 

He  moved  at  pleasure,  many  a  marble-  porch, 

Dorian,  Corinthian,  rising  at  his  call. 

(33)  "  Hujus  in  littore  plures  villas  mese."  —  Epist.  ix.  7. 
(•34)  Epist.  i.  3,  ix.  7. 

(35)  II  lago  di  Garda.    His  peninsula  he  calls  "  the  eye  of  peninsulas  ;  "  and  it  is 
beautiful.    But,  whatever  it  was,  who  could  pass  it  by  ?    Napoleon,  in  the  career  of  vic 
tory,  turned  aside  to  see  it. 

Of  his  villa  there  is  now  no  more  remaining  than  of  his  old  pinnace,  which  had 
weathered  so  many  storms,  and  which  he  consecrated  at  last  as  an  ex-voto. 

(36)  Commonly  called  Paul  Veronese. 

(37)  The  lake  of  Catullus  ;  and  now  called  II  lago  di  Garda.     Its  waves,  in  the  north, 
lash  the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol  5  and  it  was  there,  at  the  little  village  of  Limone,  that 
Hofer  embarked,  when  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy  and  on  his  way  to  Mantua,  where,  in 
the  court-yard  of  the  citadel,  he  was  shot  as  a  traitor.     Less  fortunate  than  Tell,  yet  not 
less  illustrious,  he  was  watched  by  many  a  mournful  eye  as  he  came  down  the  lake  ;  and 
his  name  will  live  long  in  the  heroic  songs  of  his  country. 

He  lies  buried  at  Innspruck,  in  the  church  of  the  Holy  Cross  ;  and  the  statue  on  his 
tomb  represents  him  in  his  habit  as  he  lived  and  as  he  died. 

(38)  Petrarch,  Epist.  Rer.  Sen.  I.  v.  ep.  3. 

(39)  Mastino  de  la  Scala,  the  Lord  of  Verona.     Cortusio,  the  ambassador  and  historian, 
saw  him  so  surrounded. 

This  house  had  been  always  open  to  the  unfortunate.  In  the  days  of  Can  Grande 
all  were  welcome  ;  poets,  philosophers,  artists,  warriors.  Each  had  his  apartment,  each  a 
separate  table  ;  and  at  the  hour  of  dinner  musicians  and  jesters  went  from  room  to  room. 
Dante,  as  we  learn  from  himself,  found  an  asylum  there. 

'  Lo  primo  tuo  rifugio,  e'l  primo  ostello 
Sar£  la  cortesia  del  gran  Lombardo, 
Che'n  su  la  scala  porta  il  santo  uccello." 

Their  tombs  in  the  public  street  carry  us  back  into  the  times  of  barbarous  virtue  ;  nor 
less  so  do  those  of  the  Carrara  Princes  of  Padua,  though  less  singular  and  striking  in 


NOTES.  431 


themselves.    Francis  Carrara,  the  elder,  used  often  to  visit  Petrarch  in  his  small  house  at 
ArquA,  and  followed  him  on  foot  to  his  grave. 

(40)  See  the  Heraclida  of  Euripides,  v.  203,  &c. 

(41)  Originally  thus : 

My  omelet,  and  a  trout,  that,  as  the  sun 
Shot  his  last  ray  through  Zanga's  leafy  grove, 
Leaped  at  a  golden  fly,  had  happily 
Fled  from  all  eyes  ; 

Zanga  is  the  name  of  a  beautiful  villa  near  Bergamo,  in  which  Tasso  finished  his 
tragedy  of  Torrismondo.  It  still  belongs  to  his  family. 

(42)  Hist,  de  Gil  Bias,  1.  i.  c.  2. 
After  the  concluding  line  in  the  MS. 

That  evening,  tended  on  with  verse  and  song, 
I  closed  my  eyes  in  heaven,  but  not  to  sleep  ; 
A  Columbine,  my  nearest  neighbor  there, 
In  her  great  bounty,  at  the  midnight  hour 
Bestowing  on  the  world  two  Harlequins. 

Chapelle  and  Bachaumont  fared  no  better  at  Salon,  "  A  cause  d'une  comedienne,  qui 
s'avisa  d'accoucher  de  deux  petits  come' diens." 

(43)  Originally  thus  : 

And  shall  I  sup  where  JULIET  at  the  masque 
First  saw  and  loved,  and  now,  by  him  who  came 
That  night  a  stranger,  sleeps  from  age  to  age  ? 

An  old  palace  of  the  Cappelletti,  with  its  uncouth  balcony  and  irregular  windows,  is 
still  standing  in  a  lane  near  the  market-place  ;  and  what  Englishman  can  behold  it  with 
indifference  ? 

When  we  enter  Verona  we  forget  ourselves,  and  are  almost  inclined  to  say,  with  Dante, 
"  Vieni  a  veder  Montecchi,  e  Cappelletii." 

(44)  It  has  been  observed  that  in  Italy  the  memory  sees  more  than  the  eye.    Scarcely  a 
stone  is  turned  up  that  has  not  some  historical  association,  ancient  or  modern  ;  that  may 
not  be  said  to  have  gold  under  it. 

(45)  fallen  as  she  is,  she  is  still,  as  in  the  days  of  Tassoni, 

"  La  gran  donna  del  Po." 

(46)  From  the  sonnet  of  Filicaja,  "  Italia  !  Italia  ! "  &c. 

(47)  All  our  travellers,  from  Addison  downward,  have  diligently  explored  the  monu 
ments  of  her  former  existence  ;  while  those  of  her  latter  have,  comparatively  speaking, 
escaped  observation.    If  I  cannot  supply  the  deficiency,  I  will  not  follow  their  example  ; 
and  happy  shall  I  be  if  by  an  intermixture  of  verse  and  prose  I  have  furnished  my 
countrymen  on  their  travels  with  a  pocket  companion. 

Though  the  obscure  has  its  worshippers,  as  well,  indeed,  it  may,  forever  changing  its 
aspect,  and  now  and  then,  if  we  may  believe  it,  wearing  the  likeness  of  the  sublime  ;  I 
have  always  endeavored,  with  what  success  I  cannot  say,  to  express  my  thoughts  and  my 
feelings  as  naturally  and  as  clearly  in  verse  as  in  prose,  sparing  no  labor,  and  remember 
ing  the  old  adage,  "  Le  Temps  n'epargne  pas  ce  qu'on  fait  sans  lui." 


432  NOTES. 


It  was  the  boast  of  Boileau—  and  how  much  are  we  indebted  to  him  !  —  that  he  had 
taught  Racine  to  write  with  difficulty,  —  to  do  as  others  have  done  who  have  left  what 
will  live  forever. 

"  Weigh  well  every  word,  nor  publish  till  many  years  are  gone  by,"  is  an  injunction 
which  has  descended  from  age  to  age,  the  injunction  of  one  *  who  could  publish  only  in 
manuscript,  and  in  manuscript  hope  to  survive  ;  though  now  (such  the  energy  of  his 
genius,  such  the  excellence  of  his  precept  and  his  practice)  in  every  country,  every  lan 
guage,  and  in  numbers  almost  numberless,  our  constant  companion  wherever  we  go.f 

What  would  he  have  said  now,  when  many  a  volume,  on  its  release  from  the  closet, 
wings  it  way  in  an  instant  over  the  Old  World  and  the  New,  flying  from  city  to  city  dur 
ing  the  changes  of  the  moon  ;  and  when  the  words  which  are  uttered  in  our  senate  at 
midnight  are  delivered  to  thousands  at  sunrise,  and  before  sunset  are  travelling  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  ? 

(48)  There  is  a  French  proverb  that  must  sometimes  occur  to  an  observer  in  the  present 
age  :  Beaucoup  de  mal,  peu  de  bruit ;  Beaucoup  de  bruit,  peu  de  mal. 

To  Lord  John  Russell  are  we  indebted  for  that  admirable  definition  of  a  proverb,  "  The 
wisdom  of  many  and  the  wit  of  one." 

(49)  A  mirror  in  the  sixteenth  century  is  said  to  have  revealed  a  secret  that  led  to  less 
tragical  consequences. 

John  Galeazzo  Visconte,  Duke  of  Milan,  becoming  enamored  in  his  youth  of  a  daughter 
of  the  house  of  Correggio,  his  gayety,  his  cheerfulness  left  him,  as  all  observed,  though 
none  knew  why  •,  till  some  ladies  of  the  court,  who  had  lived  with  him  in  great  familiarity 
and  who  had  sought  and  sought,  but  never  found,  began  to  rally  him  on  the  subject,  say 
ing,  "  Forgive  us  our  presumption,  sir,  but,  as  you  are  in  love, —  for  in  love  you  must  be, 
—  may  we  know  who  she  is,  that  we  may  render  honor  to  whom  honor  is  due  ;  for  it  will 
be  our  delight  no  less  than  our  duty  to  serve  her  ?  " 

The  duke  was  in  dismay,  and  endeavored  to  fly,  if  it  were  possible,  from  so  unequal  a 
combat.  But  in  flight  there  is  no  security  when  such  an  enemy  is  in  the  field  ;  and,  being 
soon  convinced  that  the  more  he  resisted  the  more  he  would  be  assailed,  he  resolved  at 
once  to  capitulate  ;  and,  commanding  for  the  purpose  a  splendid  entertainment,  such  as  he 
was  accustomed  to  give,  he  invited  them,  one  and  all  5  not  forgetting  the  lovely  Correggia, 
who  was  as  urgent  as  the  rest,  though  she  flattered  herself  that  she  knew  the  secret  as 
well  as  he  did. 

When  the  banquet  was  over  and  the  table-cloth  removed,  and  every  guest,  as  she  sate, 
served  with  water  for  her  fair  hands  and  with  a  tooth-pick  from  the  odoriferous  mastic-tree, 
a  cabinet  of  rich  workmanship  was  placed  on  the  table.  "  And  now,"  said  he,  with  a  gayety 
usual  to  lovers,  "  and  now,  my  dear  ladies,  as  I  can  deny  you  nothing,  come,  one  by  one, 
and  behold  her  ;  for  here  she  is  !  "  As  he  spoke,  he  unfolded  the  doors  of  the  cabinet ; 
and  each  in  her  turn  beheld  the  portrait  of  a  beautiful  girl. 

The  last  to  look  and  -to  see  was  Correggia,  for  so  he  had  contrived  it ;  but  no  contrivance 
was  wanted  5  for,  shrinking  and  agitated,  she  had  hung  back  behind  them  all,  till  to  her 
ear  came  the  intelligence  that  the  portrait  was  unknown,  and  with  the  intelligence  came 
the  conviction  that  her  fond  heart  had  deceived  her. 

But  what  were  her  feelings  when  she  looked  and  saw  ;  for  at  the  touch  of  a  spring  the 
portrait  had  vanished,  and  in  a  mirror  she  saw  herself!  —  Ricordi  di  Sabba  Castiglione, 
1559. 

For  this  story,  as  indeed  for  many  others,  I  am  indebted  to  my  friend,  Sir  Charles  Lock 
Eastlake,  President  of  the  Royal  Academy  ;  and  I  am  happy  in  this  opportunity  of 
acknowledging  my  obligations  to  him. 

•  Horace. 

t  Nineteen  centuries  have  passed  away,  and  what  scholar  has  not  now  his  pocket  Horace? 


NOTES.  433 


(50)  Murato  was  a  technical  word  for  this  punishment. 

(51)  An  old  huntsman  of  the  family  met  her  in  the  haze  of  the  morning,  and  never  went 
out  again. 

She  is  still  known  by  the  name  of  Madonna  Bianca. 

(52)  Several  were  painted  by  Giorgione  and  Titian  ;  as,  for  instance,  the  Ca'  Soranzo,  the 
Ca'  Grimani,  and  the  Fondaco  de'  Tedeschi.    Great  was  their  emulation,  great  their 
rivalry,  if  we  may  judge  from  an  anecdote  related  by  Vasari ;  and  with  what  interest  must 
they  have  been  observed  in  their  progress,  as  they  stood  at  work  on  their  scaffolds,  by 
those  who  were  passing  under  them  by  land  and  by  water  !  * 

(53)  Now  an  obserVatory.    On  the  wall  there  is  a  long  inscription  :  "  Piis  carcerem 
adspergite  lacrymis,"  &c. 

Ezzelino  is  seen  by  Dante  in  the  river  of  blood. 

(54)  Bonatti  was  the  great  astrologer  of  that  day  ;  and  all  the  little  princes  of  Italy  con 
tended  for  him.     It  was  from  the  top  of  the  tower  of  Forli  that  he  gave  his  signals  to 
Guido  Novello.     At  the  first  touch  of  a  bell  the  count  put  on  his  armor  ;  at  the  second  he 
mounted  his  horse,  and  at  the  third  marched  out  to  battle.    His  victories  were  ascribed  to 
Bonatti  ;  and  not  perhaps  without  reason.    How  many  triumphs  were  due  to  the  sooth 
sayers  of  old  Rome  ! 

(55)  "  Douze  personnes,  tant  acteurs  qu'  actrices,  un  souffleur,  un  machiniste,  un  garde 
du  magasin,  des  enfans  de  tout  4ge,  des  chiens,  des  chats,  des  singes,  des  perroquets  ;  c' 
etoit  1'  arche  de  Noe.     Ma  predilection  pour  les  soubrettes  m'arr£ta  sur  Madame  Bacche- 
rini."  —  Goldoni. 

(56)  The  passage-boats  are  drawn  up  and  down  the  Brenta. 

(57)  A  pleasant  instance  of  his  wit  and  agility  was  exhibited  some  years  ago  on  the  stage 
at  Venice. 

"  The  stutterer  was  in  an  agony  ;  the  word  was  inexorable.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that 
Harlequin  suggested  another  and  another.  At  length,  in  a  fit  of  despair,  he  pitched  his 
head  full  in  the  dying  man's  stomach,  and  the  word  bolted  out  of  his  mouth  to  the  most 
distant  part  of  the  house."  —  See  Moore's  View  of  Society  in  Italy. 

He  is  well  described  by  Marmontel  in  the  Encyclopedic. 

"Personnage  de  la  comedie  italienne.  Le  caractere  distinctif  de  1'ancienne  comedie 
italienne  es-t  de  jouer  des  ridicules,  non  pas  personnels,  mais  nationaux.  C'est  une  imita 
tion  grotesque  des  mcsurs  des  differentes  villes  d'ltalie  ;  et  chacune  d'elles  est  represented 
par  un  personnage  qui  est  toujours  le  meme.  Pantalon  est  venitien,  le  Docteur  est  bolo- 
nois,  Scapin  est  napolitain,  et  Arlequin  est  bergamasque.  Celui-ci  est  d'une  singularity 
qui  m£rite  d'etre  observee  ;  et  il  a  fait  long-temps  les  plaisirs  de  Paris,  joue  par  trois 
acteurs  cele"bres,  Dominique,  Thomassin,  et  Carlin.  II  est  vraisemblable  qu'un  esclave 
africain  fut  le  premier  module  de  ce  personnage.  Son  caractere  est  un  melange  d'igno- 
rance,  de  naivete,  d'esprit,  de  bfetise  et  de  grace  :  c'est  un  espece  d'homme  ebauche,  un 
grand  enfant,  qui  a  des  lueurs  de  raison  et  d'intelligence,  et  dont  toutes  les  me"prises  ou  lea 
maladresses  ont  quelque  chose  de  piquant.  Le  vrai  modele  de  son  jeu  est  la  souplesse, 
I'agilite,  la  gentillesse  d'un  jeune  chat,  avec  une  ecorce  de  grossi^rete  qui  rend  son  action 
plus  plaisante  ;  son  rdle  est  celui  d'un  valet  patient,  fidele,  credule,  gourmand,  toujours 
amoureux,  toujours  dans  1'embarras,  ou  pour  son  maltre,  ou  pour  lui-m£me  ;  qui  s'afiiige, 

»  Frederic  Zucchero,  in  a  drawing  which  1  have  seen,  has  introduced  his  brother  Taddeo  as  so 
employed  at  Rome  on  the  palace  of  Mattei,  and  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  as  sitting  oa  horseback 
among  the  spectators  below. 

37 


434  NOTES. 


qui  se  console  avec  la  facility  d'un  enfant,  et  dont  la  douleur  est  aussi  amusante  que  la 
joie." 

(5«)  Attila. 

(59)  "  I  love,"  says  a  traveller,  "  to  contemplate,  as  I  float  along,  that  multitude  of 
palaces  and  churches,  which  are  congregated  and  pressed  as  on  a  vast  raft."  And  who  can 
forget  his  walk  through  the  Merceria,  where  the  nightingales  give  you  their  melody  from 
shop  to  shop,  so  that,  shutting  your  eyes,  you  would  think  yourself  in  some  forest-glade, 
when,  indeed,  you  are  all  the  while  in  the  middle  of  the  sea  ?  Who  can  forget  his  pros 
pect  from  the  great  tower,  which  once,  when  gilt,  and  when  the  sun  struck  upon  it,  was 
to  be  descried  by  ships  afar  off  5  or  his  visit  to  St.  Mark's  church,  where  you  see  nothing, 
tread  on  nothing,  but  what  is  precious  ;  the  floor  all  agate,  jasper  ;  the  roof  mosaic  ;  the 
aisle  hung  with  the  banners  of  the  subject  cities  ;  the  front  and  its  five  domes  affecting  you 
as  the  work  of  some  unknown  people  ?  Yet  all  this  may  presently  pass  away  ;  the  waters 
may  close  over  it ;  and  they  that  come  row  about  in  vain  to  determine  exactly  where  it 
stood. 

(W)  A  poet  of  our  own  country,  Mr.  Wordsworth,  has  written  a  noble  sonnet  on  the 
extinction  of  the  Venetian  republic. 

"  Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee,"  &c. 

(6])  "II  fallut  subsister  ;  ils  tir^reut  leur  subsistance  de  tout  1'univers."  —  Montes 
quieu. 

(32)  A  caravan. 

(63)  There  was,  in  my  time,  another  republic,  a  place  of  refuge  for  the  unfortunate,  and, 
not  only  at  its  birth,  but  to  the  last  hour  of  its  existence,  which  had  established  itself  in 
like  manner  among  the  waters,  and  which  shared  the  same  fate  5  a  republic,  the  citizens 
of  which,  if  not  more  enterprising,  were  far  more  virtuous,*  and  could  say  also  to  the  great 
nations  of  the  world,  "  Your  countries  were  acquired  by  conquest  or  by  inheritance  ;  but 
ours  in  the  work  of  our  own  hands.  We  renew  it  day  by  day  ;  and,  but  for  us,  it  might 
cease  to  be  to-morrow  ! " —  a  republic,  in  its  progress,  forever  warred  on  by  the  elements, 
and  how  often  by  men  more  cruel  than  they  5  yet  constantly  cultivating  the  arts  of  peace, 
and,  short  as  was  the  course  allotted  to  it  (only  three  times  the  life  of  man,  according  to 
the  Psalmist),  producing,  amidst  all  its  difficulties,  not  only  the  greatest  seamen,  but  the 
greatest  lawyers,  the  greatest  physicians,  the  most  accomplished  scholars,  the  most  skilful 
painters,  and  statesmen  as  wise  as  they  were  just.f 

•  It  is  related  that  Spinola  and  Richardot,  when  on  their  way  to  negotiate  a  treaty  at  the  Hague  in 
1608,  saw  eight  or  ten  persons  land  from  a  little  boat,  and,  sitting  down  on  the  grass,  make  a  meal  of 
bread  and  cheese  and  beer.  "Who  are  these  travellers  ?"  said  the  ambassadors  to  a  peasant. — 

must  make  peace,"  they  cried.     "  These  are  not  men  to  be  conquered."  —  Voltaire. 
t  What  names,  for  instance,  are  more  illustrious  than  those  of  Barneveldt  and  De  Witt?    But  when 

When  Reinier  Barneveldt  was  condemned  to  die  for  an  attempt  to  revenge  his  father's  death  by 
assassination,  his  mother  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  Prince  Maurice.  "  You  did  not  deign,"  said  he, 
"to  ask  for  your  husband's  life  ;  and  why  ask  for  your  son's?"  —  "  My  husband,"  she  replied,  "  was 
innocent ;  but  my  son  is  guilty." 

De  Witt  was  at  once  a  model  for  the  greatest  and  the  least.     Careless  as  he  was  of  his  life  when  in 

to  transact  such  a  multiplicity  of  affairs,  he  would  answer,  "  By  doing  only  one  thing  at  a  time."  A 
saying  which  should  not  soon  be  forgotten,  and  which  may  remind  the  reader  of  another,  though  of 
less  value,  by  a  great  English  lawyer  of  the  last  century,  John  Dunning.  "  J  do  a  little;  a  Hula 
does  itself;  and  the  rest  is  undone." 


NOTES.  435 


(64)  A  national  game  of  great  antiquity,  and  most  probably  the  "  micare  digitis  "  of  the 
Romans.  It  is  an  old  observation  that  few  things  are  so  lasting  as  the  games  of  the 
young.  They  go  down  from  one  generation  to  another. 

(6-5)  Originally  thus  : 

With  Punchinello,  crying  as  in  wrath 

"Tre  !  Quattro  !  Cinque  !  "  —  'Tis  a  game  to  strike 

(6(5)  When  we  wish  to  know  if  a  man  may  be  accounted  happy,  we  should  perhaps 
inquire,  not  whether  he  is  prosperous  or  unprosperous,  but  how  much  he  is  affected  by 
little  things,  —  by  such  as  hourly  assail  us  in  the  commerce  of  life,  and  are  no  more  to  be 
regarded  than  the  buzzings  and  stingings  of  a  summer  fly. 

(67)  They  were  placed  in  the  floor  as  memorials.  The  brass  was  engraven  with  the  words 
addressed  by  the  Pope  to  the  emperor,  "  Super  aspidem  et  basiliscum  ambulabis,"  &c. 
Thou  shalt  tread  upon  the  asp  and  the  basilisk  :  the  lion  and  the  dragon  shalt  thou 
trample  under  foot. 

(68)  Alexander  III.     He  fled  in  disguise  to  Venice,  and  is  said  to  have  passed  the  first 
night  on  the  steps  of  San  Salvatore.     The  entrance  is  from  the  Mercerla,  near  the  foot  of 
the  Rialto  ;  and  it  is  thus  recorded,  under  his  escutcheon,  in  a  small  tablet  at  the  door  : 
"  Alexandra  III.  Pont.  Max.  pernoctanti." 

(69)  See  Geoffrey  de  Villehardouin,  in  Script.  Byzant,  t.  xx. 

(70)  See  Petrarch's  description  of  them  and  of  the  tournament,  Rer.  Senil.  1.  iv.  ep.  2. 

(71)  Petrarch. 

(72)  Not  less  splendid  were  the  tournaments  of  Florence  in  the  place  of  Santa  Croce.    To 
those  which  were  held  there  in  February  and  June,  1468,  we  are  indebted  for  two  of  the 
most  celebrated  poems  of  that  age,  the  Giostra  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  by  Luca  Pulci,  and 
the  Giostra  of  Giuliauo  de'  Medici,  by  Politian. 

("3)  "  Recenti  victoria  exultantes,"  says  Petrarch  ;  alluding,  no  doubt,  to  the  favorable 
issue  of  the  war  in  France.  This  festival  began  on  the  4th  of  August,  1364. 

(74)  Among  those  the  most  followed,  there  was  always  a  mask  in  a  magnificent  habit, 
relating  marvellous  adventures,  and  calling  himself  Messer  Marco  Millioni.     Millioni  was 
the  name  given  by  his  fellow-citizens  in  his  lifetime  to  the  great  traveller,  Marco  Polo. 
"  I  have  seen  him  so  described,"  says  Rftmusio,  "  in  the  records  of  the  republic  ;  and  his 
house  has,  from  that  time  to  this,  been  called  La  Corte  del  Millioni,"  the  palace  of  the 
rich  man,  the  millionnaire.     It  is  on  the  canal  of  S.  Giovanni  Chrisostomo  ;  and,  as  long 
as  he  lived,  was  much  resorted  to  by  the  curious  and  the  learned. 

(75)  "  In  atto  di  dar  la  benedittione,"  says  Sansovino  ;  and  performing  the  same  office 
as  the  Triton  on  the  tower  of  the  winds  at  Athens. 

(76)  Now  called  La  Scala  de'  Giganti.    The  colossal  statues  were  placed  there  in  1566. 

(77)  "  Marin  Faliero  della  bella  moglie  :  altri  la  gode  ed  egli  la  mantiene." 
"  Locus  Marini  Faletri  decapitati  pro  criminibus." 

(78)  Francis  Carrara  II. 

(79)  "  11  Conte,  entrando  in  prigione,  disse  :  Vedo  bene  ch'  io  son  morto,  e  trasse  un 
grande  sospiro."  —  M .  Sanuto. 


436  NOTES. 


(80)  Les  prisons  des  plombs,  c'est-i-dire  ces  fournaises  ardentes  qu'on  avait  distri 
butes  en  petites  cellules  sous  les  ten-asses  qui  couvrent  le  palais  ;  les  puits,  c'est-d-dire 
ces  fosses  creusees  sous  les  canaux,  oii  le  jour  et  la  chaleur  n'avaient  jamais  penetr£, 
itaient  les  silencieux  depositaires  des  mysterieuses  vengeances  de  ce  tribunal.  — Daru. 

(81)  A  deep  channel  behind  the  island  of  S.  Giorgio  Maggiore. 

(82)  "  How  fares  it  with  your  world  ?  "  says  his  highness  the  Devil  to  Quevedo,  on  their 
first  interview  in  the  lower  regions.   "  Do  I  prosper  there  ?  " — "  Much  as  usual,  I  believe." 
—  "  But  tell  me  truly.     How  is  my  good  city  of  Venice  ?     Flourishing  ?  "  —  "  More  than 
ever."  —  "  Then  I  am  under  no  apprehension.    All  must  go  well." 

In  a  letter  written  by  Francesco  Priscianese,  a  Florentine,  there  is  an  interesting  account 
of  an  entertainment  given  in  that  city  by  Titian. 

"I  was  invited,"  says  he,  "  to  celebrate  the  first  of  August  (ferrare  Agosto)  in  a  beauti 
ful  garden  belonging  to  that  great  painter,*  a  man  who  by  his  courtesies  could  give  a  grace 
and  a  charm  to  anything  festive  ;  t  and  there,  when  I  arrived,  I  found  him  in  company 
with  some  of  the  most  accomplished  persons  then  in  Venice  ;  together  with  three  of  my 
countrymen,  Pietro  Aretino,  Nardi  the  historian,!  and  Sansovino,  so  celebrated  as  a  sculp 
tor  and  an  architect. 

"  Though  the  place  was  shady,  the  sun  was  still  powerful  •,  and,  before  we  sat  down  at 
table,  we  passed  our  time  in  contemplating  the  excellent  pictures  with  which  the  house  was 
filled,  and  in  admiring  the  order  and  beauty  of  the  garden,  which,  being  on  the  sea  and  at 
the  northern  extremity  of  Venice,  looked  directly  on  the  little  island  of  Murano,  and  on 
others  not  less  beautiful. 

"  Great,  indeed,  was  our  admiration,  great  our  enjoyment,  wherever  we  turned  5  and  no 
sooner  did  the  sun  go  down  than  the  water  was  covered  with  gondolettas  adorned  with 
ladies,  and  resounding  with  the  richest  harmonies,  vocal  and  instrumental,  which  con 
tinued  till  midnight,  and  delighted  us  beyond  measure,  while  we  sat  and  supped,  regaling 
ourselves  with  everything  that  was  most  exquisite." 

(83)  An  allusion  to  the  supper  in  Candide  .•  c.  xxvi. 

(84)  gee  Schiller's  Ghost-seer,  c.  i. 

(85)  See  the  history  of  Bragadino,  the  Alchemist,  as  related  by  Daru.  —  Hist,  de  Fenise, 
c.  28. 

The  person  that  follows  him  was  yet  more  extraordinary,  and  is  said  to  have  appeared 
there  in  1687.  —  See  Hermippus  Redivivus. 

"  Those  who  have  experienced  the  advantages  which  all  strangers  enjoy  in  that  city 
will  not  be  surprised  that  one  who  went  by  the  name  of  Signer  Gualdi  was  admitted  into 
the  best  company,  though  none  knew  who  or  what  he  was.  He  remained  there  some 
months  ;  and  three  things  were  remarked  concerning  him  :  that  he  had  a  small  but 
inestimable  collection  of  pictures,  which  he  readily  showed  to  anybody  ;  that  he  spoke  on 
every  subject  with  such  a  mastery  as  astonished  all  who  heard  him  5  and  that  he  never 
wrote  or  received  any  letter,  never  required  any  credit  or  used  any  bills  of  exchange,  but 
paid  for  everything  in  ready  money,  and  lived  respectably,  though  not  splendidly. 

«  Great  as  he  was,  we  know  little  of  his  practice.     Palma  the  elder,  who  studied  under  him,  used  to 
say  that  he  finished  more  with  the  finger  than  the  pencil.  —  Bosehini, 
t  His  scholar  Tintoret,  if  so  much  could  not  be  said  of  him,  would  now  and  then  enliven  the  conver- 

ean,  "I  tell  thee  what,  Giacomo,"  said   he:  "if  I  had  thy  coloring  and  thou  hadst  my  design,  the 
Titians  and  Corregios  and  Raphaels  should  not  approach  us."—  Verci. 

I  Nardi  lived  long,  if  not  so  long  as  Titian.  Writing  to  Varchi  on  the  13th  of  July,  1555,  he  says: 
"  I  am  still  sound,  though  feeble  ;  having  on  the  twenty-first  of  the  present  month  to  begin  to  climb 
•with  my  staff  the  steep  ascent  of  the  eightieth  year  of  this  my  misspent  life."  —  Tiraboschi. 


NOTES.  437 


"  This  gentleman  being  one  day  at  the  coffee-house,  a  Venetian  nobleman,  who  was  an 
excellent  judge  of  pictures,  and  who  had  heard  of  Signor  Gualdi's  collection,  expressed  a 
jlesire  to  see  them  ;  and  his  request  was  instantly  granted.  After  observing  and  admir 
ing  them  for  some  time,  he  happened  to  cast  his  eyes  over  the  chamber-door,  where  hung 
a  portrait  of  the  stranger.  The  Venetian  looked  upon  it,  and  then  upon  him.  '  This  is 
your  portrait,  sir,'  said  he  to  Signor  Gualdi.  The  other  made  no  answer  but  by  a  low 
bow.  '  Yet  you  look,'  he  continued,  '  like  a  man  of  fifty  ;  and  I  know  this  picture  to  be 
of  the  hand  of  Titian,  who  has  been  dead  one  hundred  and  thirty  years.  How  is  this 
possible  ? '  'It  is  not  easy,'  said  Signor  Gualdi,  gravely, '  to  know  all  things  that  are  pos 
sible  ;  but  there  is  certainly  no  crime  in  my  being  like  a  picture  of  Titian's.'  The  Vene 
tian  perceived  that  he  had  given  offence,  and  took  his  leave. 

"  In  the  evening  he  could  not  forbear  mentioning  what  had  passed  to  some  of  his  friends, 
who  resolved  to  satisfy  themselves  the  next  day  by  seeing  the  picture.  For  this  purpose 
they  went  to  the  coffee-house  about  the  time  that  Signor  Gualdi  was  accustomed  to  come 
there  ;  and,  not  meeting  with  him,  inquired  at  his  lodgings,  where  they  learnt  that  he  had 
set  out  an  hour  before  for  Vienna.  This  affair  made  a  great  stir  at  the  time. 

(SO)  A  Frenchman  of  high  rank,  who  had  been  robbed  at  Venice  and  had  complained  in 
conversation  of  the  negligence  of  the  police,  saying  that  they  were  vigilant  only  as  spies  on 
the  stranger,  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  Terra  Firma,  when  his  gondola  stopped  suddenly 
in  the  midst  of  the  waves.  He  inquired  the  reason  ;  and  his  gondoliers  pointed  to  a  boat 
with  a  red  flag,  that  had  just  made  them  a  signal.  It  arrived  ;  and  he  was  called  on 
board.  "  You  are  the  Prince  de  Craon  ?  Were  you  not  robbed  on  Friday  evening  ?  "  — 
"  I  was."  —  "  Of  what  ?  "  —  "  Of  five  hundred  ducats."  —  "  And  where  were  they  ?  "  — 
"  In  a  green  purse." — "  Do  you  suspect  anybody  ?  " —  "  I  do,  a  servant."  — "Would  you 
know  him  again  ?  "  —  "Certainly."  The  interrogator  with  his  foot  turned  aside  an  old 
cloak  that  lay  there  ;  and  the  prince  beheld  his  purse  in  the  hand  of  a  dead  man.  "  Take 
it ;  and  remember  that  none  set  their  feet  again  in  a  country  where  they  have  presumed 
to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  government." 

(SO  TJne  magistrature  terrible,  says  Montesquieu,  une  magistrature  etablie  pour  venger 
les  crimes  qu'elle  soup^onne.  Of  the  terror  which  it  inspired  he  could  speak  from  experi 
ence,  if  we  may  believe  one  of  his  contemporaries. 

In  Italy,  says  Diderot, -he  became  acquainted  with  Lord  Chesterfield,  and  they  travelled 
on  together,  disputing  all  the  way  ;  each  asserting  and  maintaining  as  for  his  life  the 
intellectual  superiority  of  his  countrymen  ;  till  at  length  they  came  to  Venice,  where  Mon 
tesquieu  was  prosecuting  his  researches  with  an  ardor  all  his  own,  when  he  received  a 
visit  from  a  stranger,  — a  Frenchman  in  a  rusty  garb,  — who  thus  addressed  him  :  "  You 
must  wonder  at  my  intrusion,  sir  5  but,  when  the  life  of  a  countryman  is  in  danger,  I  can 
not  remain  silent,  cost  me  what  it  may.  In  this  city  many  a  man  has  gone  to  his  grave 
for  one  inconsiderate  word,  and  you  have  uttered  a  thousand.  Nor  is  it  unknown  to  the 
government  that  you  write  ;  and  before  the  sun  goes  down  —  But  I  have  said  more  than 
enough  ;  and  may  it  not  be  too  late  !  Good-morning  to  you,  sir.  All  I  beg  of  you  in 
return  is,  that,  if  you  see  me  again  under  any  circumstances,  you  will  not  discover  that 
you  have  seen  me  before." 

The  president,  in  the  greatest  coasternation,  prepared  for  instant  flight,  and  had  already 
committed  his  papers  to  the  flames,  when  Chesterfield  appeared  and  began  to  reason  with 
him  on  the  subject. 

"  What  could  be  his  motive  ?  Friendship  ?  " — "  He  did  not  know  me." — "  Money  ?  " — 
"He  asked  for  none."  —  "And  all,  then,  for  nothing;  when,  if  detected,  he  would  bo 
strangled  on  the  spot !  —  No,  no,  my  friend.  He  was  sent,  you  may  rest  assured  ;  and 
what  would  you  say,  —  but  let  me  reflect  a  little,  —  and  what  would  you  say,  if  you  were 
Indebted  for  this  visit  to  an  Englishman,  a  fellow-traveller  of  yours,  to  convince  you  by 

87* 


438  NOTES. 


experience  of  what  by  argument  he  could  never  convince  you  ;  that  one  grain  of  our  com 
mon  sense,  meanly  as  you  may  think  of  it,  is  worth  a  thousand  of  that  esprit  on  which 
you  all  value  yourselves  so  highly  ;  for  with  one  grain  of  common  sense  — " 

"  Ah,  villain  !  "  exclaimed  Montesquieu,  "  what  a  trick  you  have  played  me  !  And  my 
manuscript !  my  manuscript,  which  I  have  burnt  !  " 

(88)  La  Biondina  in  Gondoletta. 

(89)  »  C'etait  sous  les  portiques  de  Saint-Marc  que  les  patriciens  se  r^unissaient  tous 
les  jours.   Le  nom  de  cette  promenade  indiquait  sa  destination  ;  on  1'appellait  il  Broglio." 
—  Daru. 

(90)  When  a  despot  lays  his  hand  on  a  free  city,  how  soon  must  he  make  the  discovery 
of  the  rustic  who  bought  Punch  of  the  puppet-show  man,  and  complained  that  he  would 
not  speak ! 

(01)  For  this  thought  I  am  indebted  to  some  unpublished  travels  by  the  author  of 
Vathek. 

(92)  Goldoni,  describing  his  excursion  with  the  Passalacqua,  has  left  us  a  lively  picture 
of  this  class  of  men. 

"  We  were  no  sooner  in  the  middle  of  that  great  lagoon  which  encircles  the  city,  than 
our  discreet  gondolier  drew  the  curtain  behind  us,  and  let  us  float  at  the  will  of  the  waves. 
At  length  night  came  on,  and  we  could  not  tell  where  we  were.  '  What  is  the  hour  ? ' 
said  I  to  the  gondolier.  — '  I  cannot  guess,  sir  5  but,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  is  the  lover'3 
hour.'  — '  Let  us  go  home,'  I  replied  ;  and  he  turned  the  prow  homeward,  singing,  as  he 
rowed,  the  twenty-sixth  strophe  of  the  sixteenth  canto  of  the  Jerusalem  Delivered." 

(93)  Premi  o  stali. 

(94)  At  Venice,  if  you  have  la  riva  in  casa,  you  step  from  your  boat  into  the  hall. 

(95)  Bianca  Capello.    It  had  been  shut,  if  we  may  believe  the  novelist  Malespini,  by  a 
baker's  boy,  as  he  passed  by  at  daybreak  ;  and  in  her  despair  she  fled  with  her  lover  to 
Florence,  where  he  fell  by  assassination.    Her  beauty,  and  her  love-adventure  as  here 
related,  her  marriage  afterwards  with  the  grand  duke,  and  that  fatal  banquet  at  which 
they  were  both  poisoned  by  the  cardinal,  his  brother,  have  rendered  her  history  a 
romance. 

(96)  This  circumstance  took  place  at  Venice  on  the  first  of  February,  the  eve  of  the  feast 
of  the  Purification  of  the  Virgin,  A.  D.  994,  Pietro  Candiano,  Doge. 

(97)  "  E  '1  costume  era,  che  tutte  le  novizze  con  tutta  la  dote  loro  venissero  alia  detta 
chiesa,  dov'  era  il  vescovo  con  tutta  la  chieresia."  —  A.  Navagiero, 

(98)  Among  the  Habiti  Antichi,  in  that  admirable  book  of  wood-cuts  ascribed  to  Titian 
(A.  D.  1590),  there  is  one  entitled  "  Sposa  Venetiana  &  Castello."    It  was  taken  from  an 
old  painting  in  the  Scuola  di  S.  Giovanni  Evangelista,  and  by  the  writer  is  believed  to 
represent  one  of  the  brides  here  described. 

(99)  San  Pietro  di  Castello,  the  patriarchal  church  of  Venice. 

(100)  »  Una  galera  e  una  galeotta."  —  M.  Sanuto. 

(101)  In  the  lagoons  of  Caorlo.    The  creek  is  still  called  II  Porto  delle  Donzelle. 

(102)  «  Paululum  etiam  spirans,"  &c.  —  Sallust.    Bell.  Catal.  59. 


NOTES.  439 


(103)  They  are  described  by  Evelyn  and  La  Lande,  and  were  to  be  seen  in  the  treasury 
of  St.  Mark  very  lately. 

(104)  »  Le  quali  con  trionfo  si  conducessero  sopra  una  piatta  pe'  canali  di  Venezia  con 
suoni  e  canti."  —  M.  Sanuto. 

(105)  An  English  abbreviation.     Rialto  is  the  name,  not  of  the  bridge,  but  of  the  island 
from  which  it  is  called  ;  and  the  Venetians  say  II  ponte  di  Rialto^  as  we  say  West 
minster  bridge. 

In  that  island  is  the  exchange  ;  and  I  have  often  walked  there  as  on  classic  ground. 
In  the  days  of  Antonio  and  Bassanio  it  was  second  to  none.  "  I  sottoportici,"  says  San- 
sovino,  writing  in  1580,  "  sono  ogni  giorno  frequentati  da  i  mercatanti  Fiorentini,  Geno- 
vesi,  Milanesi,  Spagnuoli,  Turchi,  e  d'  altre  nationi  diverse  del  mondo,  i  quali  vi  concor- 
rono  in  tanta  copia,  che  questa  piazza  £  annoverata  fra  le  prime  dell'  universo."  It  was 
there  that  the  Christian  held  discourse  with  the  Jew  ;  and  Shylock  refers  to  it,  when  he 
says, 

"  Signor  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto  you  have  rated  me  — " 

"  Andiarao  a  Rialto,"  —  "  L'ora  di  Rialto,"  —  were  on  every  tongue  ;  and  continue  so  to 
the  present  day,  as  we  learn  from  the  comedies  of  Goldoni,  and  particularly  from  his 
Mercanti. 

There  is  a  place  adjoining,  called  Rialto  Nuovo  ;  and  so  called,  according  to  Sansovino, 
"  perch£  fii  fabbricato  dopo  il  vecchio." 

(100)  The  Council  of  Ten  and  the  Giunta,  "  nel  quale,"  says  Sanuto,  "  fu  messer  lo 
doge."  The  Giunta  at  the  first  examination  consisted  of  ten  patricians,  at  the  last  of 
twenty. 

This  story  and  the  tragedy  of  the  Two  Foscari  were  published  within  a  few  days  of  each 
other,  in  November,  1821. 

(100  She  was  a  Contarini  5  a  name  coeval  with  the  Republic,  and  illustrated  by  eight 
Doges.  On  the  occasion  of  their  marriage  the  Bucentaur  came  out  in  its  splendor  ;  and  a 
bridge  of  boats  was  thrown  across  the  C&nal  Grande  for  the  bridegroom  and  his  retinue 
of  three  hundred  horse.  Sanuto  dwells  with  pleasure  on  the  costliness  of  the  dresses,  and 
the  magnificence  of  the  processions  by  land  and  water.  The  tournaments  in  the  place  of 
St.  Mark  lasted  three  days,  and  were  attended  by  thirty  thousand  people. 

(108)  Francesco  Sforza.     His  father,  when  at  work  in  the  field,  was  accosted  by  some 
soldiers,  and  asked  if  he  would  enlist.     "  Let  me  throw  my  mattock  on  that  oak,"  he 
replied,  "  and  if  it  remains  there,  I  will."     It  remained  there  ;  and  the  peasant,  regarding 
it  as  a  sign,  enlisted.     He  became  soldier,  general,  prince  ;  and  his  grandson,  in  the 
palace  at  Milan,  said  to  Paulus  Jovius,  "You  behold  these  guards  and  this  grandeur.     I 
owe  everything  to  the  branch  of  an  oak,  —  the  branch  that  held  my  grandfather's  mat 
tock." 

(109)  It  was  a  high  crime  to  solicit  the  intercession  of  any  foreign  prince. 

(110)  "  Va  e  ubbidisci  a  quello  che  vuole  la  terra,  e  non  cercar  piii  oltre." 

(111)  The  state-inquisitors.    For  an  account  of  their  authority,  see  page  306. 

(112>  There  is  a  beautiful  precept  which  he  who  has  received  an  injury,  or  who 
thinks  that  he  has,  would  for  his  own  sake  do  well  to  follow  :  "  Excuse  half  and  forgive 
the  rest." 

(113)  "  Veneno  sublatus."    The  tomb  is  in  the  Church  of  St.  Elena. 


440  NOTES. 


014)  A  remarkable  instance,  among  others  in  the  annals  of  Venice,  that  her  princes 
were  merchants  •,  her  merchants,  princes. 

(115)  Count  Ugolino.  —  Inferno,  32. 

(116)  Remember  the  poor  Marcolini  ! 

(117)  "  I  visited  once  more,"  says  Alfieri,  "  the  tomb  of  our  master  in  love,  the  divine 
Petrarch  ;  and  there,  as  at  Ravenna,  consecrated  a  day  to  meditation  and  verse." 

He  visited  also  the  house  ;  and  in  the  album  there  wrote  a  sonnet  worthy  of  Petrarch 
himself. 

"  0  Cameretta,  che  gii  in  te  chiudesti 
Quel  Grande  alia  cui  fama  e1  angusto  il  mondo,"  &c. 

Alfieri  took  great  pleasure  in  what  he  called  his  poetical  pilgrimages.  At  the  birth 
place  and  the  grave  of  Tasso  he  was  often  to  be  found  ;  and  in  the  library  at  Ferrara  he 
has  left  this  memorial  of  himself  on  a  blank  leaf  of  the  Orlando  Furioso.-  "  Vittorio  Alfieri 
vide  e  venerd.  18  giugno,  1783." 

(118)  The  Cote  Rotie,  the  Hermitage,  &c. 

(119)  After  which,  in  the  MS. 

A  Crusoe,  sorrowing  in  his  loneliness  — 

(120)  This  village,  says  Boccaccio,  hitherto  almost  unknown  even  at  Padua,  is  soon  to 
become  famous  through  the  world  ;  and  the  sailor  on  the  Adriatic  will  prostrate  himself 
when  he  discovers  the  Euganean  hills.     "  Among  them,"  will  he  say,  "  sleeps  the  poet 
who  is  our  glory.     Ah,  unhappy  Florence!    You  neglected  him,  —  you  deserved  him 
not." 

(121)  "  I  have  built  among  the  Euganean  hills  a  small  house,  decent  and  proper  5  in 
which  I  hope  to  pass  the  rest  of  my  days,  thinking  always  of  my  dead  or  absent  friends." 
Among  those  still  living  was  Boccaccio  ;  who  is  thus  mentioned  by  him  in  his  will :  "  To 
Don  Giovanni  of  Certaldo,  for  a  winter-gown  at  his  evening  studies,  I  leave  fifty  golden 
florins  ;  truly  little  enough  for  so  great  a  man." 

When  the  Venetians  overran  the  country,  Petrarch  prepared  for  flight.  "  Write  your 
name  over  your  door,"  said  one  of  his  friends,  "and  you  will  be  safe."  —  "  I  am  not  so 
sure  of  that,"  replied  Petrarch,  and  fled  with  his  books  to  Padua.  His  books  he  left  to 
the  republic  of  Venice,  laying,  as  it  were,  a  foundation  for  the  library  of  St.  Mark  ;  but 
they  exist  no  longer!  His  legacy  to  his  friend  Francis  Carrara  the  elder,  a  Madonna  painted 
by  Giotto,  is  still  preserved  in  the  cathedral  of  Padua. 

(122)  Thrice  happy  is  he  who  acquires  the  habit  of  looking  everywhere  for  excellences, 
and  not  for  faults,  —  whether  in  art  or  in  nature,  —  whether  in  a  picture,  a  poem,  or  a 
character.   Like  the  bee  in  its  flight,  he  extracts  the  sweet,  and  not  the  bitter,  wherever  he 
goes  ;  till  his  mind  becomes  a  dwelling-place  for  all  that  is  beautiful,  receiving,  as  it  were 
by  instinct,  what  is  congenial  to  itself,  and  rejecting  everything  else  almost  as  uncon 
sciously  as  if  it  was  not  there. 

(12-3)  May  I  for  a  moment  transport  my  reader  into  the  depths  of  the  Black  Forest  ?  It 
is  for  the  sake  of  a  little  story  which  has  some  relation  to  the  subject,  and  which  many,  if 
I  mistake  not,  will  wish  to  be  true. 

"  Farewell  !  "  said  the  old  baron,  as  he  conducted  his  guest  to  the  gate.  "  If  you  must 
go,  you  must.  But  promise  to  write,  for  we  shall  be  anxious  to  hear  of  your  entire 
recovery  ;  though  we  cannot  regret,  as  we  ought  to  do,  an  illness  by  which  we  have  been 
so  much  the  gainers."  The  young  man  said  nothing,  but  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes  5  and, 


NOTES. 


as  the  carriage  drove  off,  he  looked  back  again  and  again  on  the  venerable  towers  of  the 
castle  in  which  he  had  experienced  such  kindness.  "  Nor  can  I  regret  my  illness,"  said 
he  to  himself,  with  a  sigh. 

Sick  and  a  stranger,  he  had  been  received  and  welcomed  from  a  miserable  inn  in  the 
village  below.  By  the  baron  he  had  been  treated  with  the  tenderness  of  a  parent ;  and 
by  his  daughter  —  but  the  reader  must  fill  up  the  sentence  from  what  follows. 

It  was  a  younger  son  of  the  house  of  Modena,  who  was  now  travelling  homeward  along 
the  banks  of  the  Danube.  What  he  thought  at  first  to  be  gratitude,  neither  time  nor  dis 
tance  could  remove  or  diminish  ;  and,  having  not  long  afterwards,  by  some  unexpected 
circumstances,  succeeded  to  the  dukedom,  he  wrote  instantly  to  invite  her  who  had  nursed 
him  in  his  extremity  to  come  and  share  his  throne.  "  You  have  given  me  life,"  said  he, 
"  and  you  cannot  refuse  me  that  without  which  life  would  be  of  little  value." 

Her  answer  was  soon  received.  She  would  not  deny  the  pleasure,  the  emotion,  with 
which  she  had  read  his  letter.  She  would  not  conceal  the  friendship,  —  the  more  than 
friendship,  —  which  she  had  conceived  for  him.  "  But  I  am  no  longer,"  says  she,  "  what 
I  was.  A  cruel  distemper  has  so  entirely  changed'me  that  you  would  not  know  me  ;  and, 
grateful  as  I  shall  ever  feel  for  the  honor  and  the  happiness  you  intended  for  me,  I  must, 
for  your  sake,  for  my  own,  decline  them  both,  and  remain  here  to  devote  myself  to  my 
father  in  the  obscurity  in  which  you  found  me." 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  it  was  your  mind,  and  not  your  person,  beautiful  as  you  then  were, 
beautiful  as  in  my  eyes  you  must  always  continue  to  be,  that  won  my  regard.  Come,  — 
for  come  you  must,  —  and  bring  him  —  my  friend,  my  benefactor  —  along  with  you,  that 
with  you  I  may  study  to  make  him  happy  ;  nor  can  I  fail  of  success,  for  it  shall  be  the 
business  of  my  life  to  make  you  so." 

She  came,  and  as  lovely  as  ever.  It  was  a  ruse  to  try  the  strength  of  his  affection  ; 
and  from  her  is  said  to  have  descended  the  race  that  now  occupies  the  throne  of  Modena. 

(124)  Affirming  itself  to  be  the  very  bucket  which  Tassoni  in  his  mock  heroics  has 
celebrated  as  the  cause  of  war  between  Bologna  and  Modena,  five  hundred  years  ago. 

(125)  Inferno,  V. 

(12G)  This  story  is,  I  believe,  founded  on  fact ;  though  the  time  and  place  are  uncertain. 
Many  old  houses  in  England  lay  claim  to  it. 

Except  in  this  instance  and  another  (p.  411)  I  have  everywhere  followed  history  or  tra 
dition  ;  and  I  would  here  disburden  my  conscience  in  pointing  out  these  exceptions,  lest 
the  reader  should  be  misled  by  them. 

(127)  Commonly  called  Domenichino. 

(128)  How  affecting  are  such  demonstrations  of  grief ! 

We  readr>f  a  father  who  lost  an  only  child  by  a  fall  from  a  window,  and  who,  as  long  as 
he  lived,  and  however  he  might  be  employed,  would  suddenly  break  off  and  give  the  cry 
and  the  look  and  the  gesture  which  he  gave  when  it  sprung  from  his  arms  and  was 
gone. 

It  is  said  that  Garrick  was  well  acquainted  with  him,  and  that,  when  solicited  by  the 
actors  in  Paris  to  give  some  proof  of  his  power,  he  gave  what  he  had  seen  so  often,  and 
with  a  truth  that  overcame  them  all. 

(129)  See  the  Cries  of  Bologna,  as  drawn  by  Annibal  Carracci.     He  was  of  very  humble 
origin  ;  and,  to  correct  his  brother's  vanity,  once  sent  him  a  portrait  of  their  father,  the 
tailor,  threading  his  needle. 

(130)  The  principal  gondolier,  il  fante  di  poppa,  was  almost  always  in  the  confidence  of 
his  master,  and  employed  on  occasions  that  required  judgment  and  address. 


442  NOTES. 

(131)  "  Adrianum  mare."  —  Cic. 

(13.)  See  the  Prophecy  of  Dante, 

(1E3)  See  the  tale  as  told  by  Boccaccio  and  Dryden. 

(131)  Such,  perhaps,  as  suggested  to  Petrocchi  the  sonnet,  "  lo  chiesi  al  Tempo,"  &c. 
I  said  to  Time,  "  This  venerable  pile, 
Its  floor  the  earth,  its  roof  the  firmament, 
Whose  was  it  once  ?  "     lie  answered  not,  but  fled 
Fast  as  before.     I  turned  to  Fume,  and  asked. 
"Names  such  as  his,  to  thce  they  must  be  known. 
Speak  !  "     But  she  answered  only  with  a  sigh, 
And,  musing  mournfully,  looked  on  the  ground. 
Then  to  Oblivion  I  addressed  myself, 
A  dismal  phantom,  sitting  at  the  gate  ; 
And,  with  a  voice  as  from  the  grave,  he  cried, 
"  Whose  it  was  once  I  care  not ;  now  't  is  mine."  * 

The  same  turn  of  thought  is  in  an  ancient  inscription  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  repeated 
to  me  many  years  ago,  and  which  he  had  met  with,  I  believe,  in  the  cemetery  of  Melrose 
Abbey,  when  wandering,  like  Old  Mortality,  among  the  tomb-stones  there. 

The  Earth  walks  on  the  Earth,  glistering  with  gold  ; 
The  Earth  goes  to  the  Earth,  sooner  than  it  wold. 
The  Earth  builds  on  the  Earth  temples  and  towers  ; 
The  Earth  says  to  the  Earth,  "  All  will  be  ours." 

(13:)  They  wait  for  the  traveller's  carriage  at  the  foot  of  every  hill. 

(136)  Among  other  instances  of  her  ascendency  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  it 
is  related  that  Florence  saw  twelve  of  her  citizens  assembled  at  the  court  of  Boniface  the 
Eighth,  as  ambassadors  from  different  parts  of  Europe  and  Asia.    Their  names  are  men 
tioned  in  Toscana  ILlustrata. 

(137)  A  chapel  of  the  Holy  Virgin  in  the  church  of  the  Carmelites.    It  is  adorned  with 
the  paintings  of  Masaccio,  and  all  the  great  artists  of  Florence  studied  there  ;  Lionardo  da 
Vinci,  Fra  Bartolomeo,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  &c. 

He  had  no  stone,  no  inscription,  says  Vasari,  for  he  was  thought  little  of  in  his  lifetime. 

"  Se  alcun  cercasse  il  marmo,  o  il  nome  mio, 

La  chiesa  £  il  marmo,  una  cappella  e  il  nome." 

Nor  less  melancholy  was  the  fate  of  Andrea  del  Sarto,  though  his  merit  was  not  undis 
covered.  "  There  is  a  little  man  in  Florence,"  said  Michael  Angelo  to  Raphael,  "  who,  if 
he  were  employed  on  such  great  works  as  you  are,  would  bring  the  sweat  to  your  brow." 
See  Bocchi  in  his  "  Bellezza  di  Firenze." 

(l;-8)  II  sasso  di  Dante.  It  exists,  I  believe,  no  longer,  the  wall  having  been  taken  down  ; 
but  enough  of  him  remains  elsewhere.  Boccaccio  delivered  his  lectures  on  the  Diviua 
Commedia  in  the  church  of  S.  Stefano  ;  and  whoever  happens  to  enter  it,  when  the  light  is 
favorable,  may  still,  methinks,  catch  a  glimpse  of  him  and  his  hearers. 

(139)  This  quarter  of  the  city  was,  at  the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century,!  the  scene  of  a 
romantic  incident  that  befell  a  young  lady  of  the  Amieri  family,  who,  being  crossed  in  love 

•  For  the  last  line  I  am  indebted  to  a  translation  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Strong, 
t  October,  1396. 


NOTES.  443 


and  sacrificed  by  her  father  to  his  avarice  or  his  ambition,  was,  in  the  fourth  year  of  an 
unhappy  marriage,  consigned  to  the  grave. 

With  the  usual  solemnities  she  was  conveyed  to  the  cemetery  of  the  cathedral,  and  de 
posited  in  a  sepulchre  of  the  family  that  was  long  pointed  out  ;  but  she  was  not  to  remain 
there.  For  she  had  been  buried  in  a  trance  5  and,  awaking  at  midnight  "  among  them 
that  slept,"  she  disengaged  in  the  darkness  her  hands  and  her  feet,  and,  climbing  up  the 
narrow  staircase  to  a  gate  that  had  been  left  unlocked,  came  abroad  into  the  moonshine, 
wondering  where  she  was,  and  what  had  befallen  her.  When  she  had  in  some  degree 
recovered  herself,  she  sought  the  house  of  her  husband  ;  *  going  forth  in  her  grave-clothes 
and  passing  through  the  street,  that  was  thenceforth  to  be  called  the  Street  of  the  Dead.f 
But,  when  she  arrived  there  and  he  beheld  her,  he  started  back  as  from  a  spectre,  and 
shut  the  door  against  her  and  lied. 

To  her  father  then  she  directed  her  steps,  and  afterwards  to  a;i  uncle,  but  with  no 
better  success  ;  and  now,  being  everywhere  rejected,  and  with  horror,  what,  alas,  had 
she  to  do  but  to  die  !  —  to  return  to  the  place  from  which  in  that  garment  she  had  wan 
dered  ?  For  a  while,  in  her  agony,  she  is  said  to  have  sheltered  herself  under  the  porch  of 
St.  Bartholomew  ;  till,  the  day  beginning  to  break  and  the  stir  of  life  to  gather  round  her, 
she  resolved  at  once  to  fly  for  refuge  to  him  who  had  loved  her  from  their  childhood,  and 
who  could  never  reject  her. 

Undistinguished  in  the  crowd,  he  had  followed  the  funeral-train  ;  and,  having  taken  a 
last  look  before  she  was  removed  from  the  bier,  he  was  brooding  at  home  on  the  past, 
when  a  voice  came  through  the  lattice,  like  a  voice  from  heaven,  and  the  interview  let  those 
imagine  who  can. 

The  sequel  will  surprise  the  reader,  but  we  should  remember  when  and  where  they 
lived.  Her  husband  claiming  her,  she  appealed  to  the  ecclesiastical  court  ;  and,  after  due 
deliberation,  it  was  decided  that,  having  been  buried  with  the  rites  of  the  church,  and 
having  passed  through  the  grave,  she  was  absolved  from  her  vow,  and  at  liberty  to  marry 
again.  —  Firenza  Illustrate.  L'Osservatore  Fiorentino. 

(140)  Inferno,   33.     A  more   dreadful  vehicle  for   satire  cannot  well  be  conceived. 
Dante,  according  to  Boccaccio,  was  passing  by  a  door  in  Verona,  at  which  some  women 
were  sitting,  when  one  of  them  was  overheard  to  say,  in  a  low  voice,  to  the  rest,  Do  you  see 
that  man  ?     He  it  is  who  visits  hell  whenever  he  pleases  ;  and  who  returns  to  give  an 
account  of  those  lie  finds  there.  —  I  can  believe  it,  replied  another.     Don't  you  observe 
his  brown  skin  and  his  frizzled  beard  ? 

(141)  "  Movemur  enim  nescio  quo  pacto  locis  ipsis,  in  quibus  eorum,  quos  diligimus,  aut 
admiramur,  adsunt  vestigia.     Me  quidem  ipsoe  illse  nostrae  Athena;  non  tarn  operibus 
magnificis   exquisitisque  antiquorum   artibus  delectant,  qu&tn  recordatione   summorum 
virorum,  ubi  quisque  habitare,  ubi  sedere,  ubi  disputare  sit  solitus  :  studiose'que  eoruua 
etiam  sepulchra  contemplor."  —  Cic.  de  Leqibux,  ii.  2. 

(142)  A  saying  of  Michael  Angelo.     They  are  the  work  of  Lorenzo  Ghiberti. 

(143)  «  Mio  bel  san  Giovanni."  —  Inferno,  19. 

(144)  Great,  indeed,  are  the  miseries  that  here  await  the  children  of  genius  ;  so  exqui-  | 
sitely  alive  are  they  to  every  breath  that  stirs.     But,  if  they  suffer  more  than  others,  < 
more  than  others  is  it  theirs  to  enjoy.     Every  gleam  of  sunshine  on  their  journey  has  a  ; 
lustre  not  its  own  ;  and,  to  the  last,  —  come  what  may,  —  how  great  is  their  delight  when  : 
they  pour  forth  their  conceptions,  when  they  deliver  what  they  receive  from  the  God  that 


Nel  Corso  dejli  Ad 
La  Via  dell  Murte, 


444  NOTES. 


is  within  them  ;  how  great  the  confidence  with  which  they  look  forward  to  the  day,  how 
ever  distant,  when  those  who  are  yet  unborn  shall  bless  them  ! 

(145)  Paradiso,  17. 

(146)  The   Chapel  de'  Depositi ;  in  which  are  the  tombs  of  the  Medici,  by  Michael 
Angelo. 

(147)  He  died  early  ;  living  only  to  become  the  father  of  Catherine  de  Medicis.    Had  an 
evil  spirit  assumed  the  human  shape   to  propagate  mischief,   he  could  not  have  done 
better. 

'fhe  statue  is  larger  than  the  life,  but  not  so  large  as  to  shock  belief.  It  is  the  most  real 
and  unreal  thing  that  ever  came  from  the  chisel. 

(148;  The  day  of  All  Souls  ;  II  dl  de'  Morti. 

(14'J)  "  Exoriare  aliquis  nostris  ex  ossibus  ultor  !  " 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  in  language  more  affecting  than  his  last  testament.  It  is 
addressed  "  To  God,  the  Deliverer,"  and  was  found  steeped  in  his  blood. 

(150)  Filippo  Strozzi. 

(151)  The  Tribune. 

(15-')  Cosmo,  the  first  Grand  Duke. 

(153)  De  Thou. 

(154)  Elenora  di  Toledo.     Of  the  children  that  survived  her,  one  fell  by  a  brother,  one  by 
a  husband,  and  a  third  murdered  his  wife.     But  that  family  was  soon  to  become  extinct. 
It  is  some  consolation  to  reflect  that  their  country  did  not  go  unrevenged  for  the  calamities 
which  they  had  brought  upon  her.    How  many  of  them  died  by  the  hands  of  each  other  ! 
—  See  p.  448. 

(155)  De  Thou. 

(156)  The  Palazzo  Vecchio.     Cosmo  had  left  it  several  years  before. 

(157)  By  Yasari,  who  attended  him  on  this  occasion.     Thuanus,  de  Yitd  sua,  i. 

(158)  It  was  given  out  that  they  had  died  of  a  contagious  fever  :  and  funeral  orations 
were  publicly  pronounced  in  their  honor. 

Alficri  has  written  a  tragedy  on  the  subject ;  if  it  may  be  said  so,  when  he  has  altered 
so  entirely  the  story  and  the  characters. 

(159)  He  was  the  father  of  modern  painting,  and  the  master  of  Giotto,  whose  talent  he 
discovered  in  the  way  here  alluded  to. 

"  Chnabue'  stood  still,  and,  having  considered  the  boy  and  his  work,  he  asked  him  if  he 
would  go  and  live  with  him  at  Florence.  To  which  the  boy  answered  that,  if  his  father 
was  willing,  he  would  go,  with  all  his  heart."  —  Vasari. 

Of  Cimabud  little  now  remains  at  Florence,  except  his  celebrated  Madonna,  larger  than 
the  life,  in  Santa  Maria  Novella.  It  was  painted,  according  to  Vasari,  in  a  garden  near 
Porta  S.  Piero,  and,  when  finished,  was  carried  to  the  church  in  solemn  procession,  with 
trumpets  before  it.  The  garden  lay  without  the  walls  ;  and  such  was  the  rejoicing  there 
on  the  occasion,  such  the  feasting,  that  the  suburb  received  the  name  of  Borgo  Allegri, 
a  name  it  still  bears,  though  now  a  part  of  the  city. 

(ICO)  His  first  instrument  was  presented  by  him  to  the  Doge  of  Yenice  ;  and  there  is 
a  tradition  at  Venice  that  he  exhibited  its  wonders  on  the  top  of  the  tower  of  St.  Mark. 


NOTES.  445 


His  second,  which  discovered  the  satellites  of  Jupiter,  and  was  endeared  to  him,  as  he 
says,  by  much  fatigue  and  by  many  a  midnight  watch,  remained  entire,  I  believe,  till  very 
lately,  in  the  Museum  at  Florence. 

Kepler's  letter  to  him  on  that  discovery  is  very  characteristic  of  the  writer.  "  I  was 
sitting  idle  at  home,  thinking  of  you  and  your  letters,  most  excellent  Galileo,  when  Wach- 
enfels  stopped  his  carriage  at  my  door  to  tell  me  the  news  ;  and  such  was  my  wonder 
when  I  heard  it,  such  my  agitation  (for  at  once  it  decided  an  old  controversy  of  ours),  that, 
what  with  his  joy  and  my  surprise,  and  the  laughter  of  both,  we  were  for  some  time  un 
able,  he  to  speak,  and  I  to  listen.  At  last  I  began  to  consider  how  they  could  be  there, 
without  overturning  my  Mysterium  Cosmographicum,  published  thirteen  years  ago.  'Not 
that  I  doubt  their  existence.  So  far  from  it,  I  am  longing  for  a  glass,  that  I  may,  if 
possible,  get  the  start  of  you,  and  find  two  for  Mars,  six  or  eight  for  Saturn,"  &c. 

In  Jupiter  and  his  satellites,  seen  as  they  now  are,  "  we  behold,  at  a  single  glance  of  the 
eye,  a  beautiful  miniature  of  the  planetary  system,"  and  perhaps  of  every  system  of 
worlds  through  the  regions  of  space. 

(161)  It  is  somewhere  mentioned  that  Michael  Angelo,  when  he  set  out  from  Florence  to 
build  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  turned  his  horse  round  in  the  road  to  contemplate  once  more 
that  of  the  cathedral,  as  it  rose  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  from  among  the  pines  and 
cypresses  of  the  city,  and  that  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  Come  te  non  voglio  !    Meglio  di  te 
non  posso  ! "  *     lie  never,  indeed,  spoke  of  it  but  with  admiration  ;  and,  if  we  may 
believe  tradition,  his  tomb  by  his  own  desire  was  to  be  so  placed  in  the  Santa  Croce  as  that 
from  it  might  be  seen,  when  the  doors  of  the  church  stood  open,  that  noble  work  of  Bru- 
nelleschi. 

(162)  Santa  Maria  Novella.     For  its  grace  and  beauty  it  was  called  by  Michael  Angelo 
"  La  Sposa." 

(163)  In  the  year  of  the  Great  Plague.     See  the  Decameron. 

(164)  Once,  on  a  bright  November  morning,  I  set  out  and  traced  them,  as  I  conceived, 
step  by  step  5  beginning  and  ending  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  Novella.    It  was  a 
walk  delightful  in  itself  and  in  its  associations. 

(165)  I  have  here  followed  Baldelli.     It  has  been  said  that  Boccaccio  drew  from  his 
imagination.     But  is  it  likely,  when  he  and  his  readers  were  living  within  a  mile  or  two  of 
the  spot  ?    Truth  or  fiction,  it  furnishes  a  pleasant  picture  of  the  manners  and  amuse 
ments  of  the  Florentines  in  that  day. 

(166)  At  three  o'clock.    Three  hours  after  sunrise,  according  to  the  old  manner  of 
reckoning. 

(167)  Boccaccio. 

(168)  Decameron,  vi.  10. 

(169)  Macchiavel. 

(170)  See  a  very  interesting  letter  from  Macchiavel  to  Francesco  Yettori,  dated  the  10th 
of  December,  1513. 

(l"l)  Since  the  invention  of  letters,  when  we  began  to  write,  how  much,  that  will  live 
forever,  has  come  in  solitude  and  in  silence  from  the  head  and  the  heart !  No  voice 
delivers  it  when  it  comes  ;  yet  on  by  its  own  energy  it  goes  through  the  world,  come 

•  Like  thee  I  will  not  build  one.    Better  than  thee  I  cannot. 

38 


446  NOTES. 

whence  it  may,  —  from  the  distant,  from  the  dead,  —  and  on  it  will  continue  to  go,  en 
lightening  millions  yet  unborn  in  regions  yet  undiscovered. 

(172)  La  Vcrdea.   It  is  celebrated  by  Rinuccini,  Iledi,  and  most  of  the  Tuscan  poets  ;  nor 
is  it  unnoticed  by  some  of  ours. 

"  Say,  he  had  been  at  Rome  and  seen  the  relics, 
Drunk  your  Verdea  wine,"  &c. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

(173)  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  what  Galileo  must  have  felt,  when,  having  constructed  his 
telescope,  he  turned  it  to  the  heavens,  and  saw  the  mountains  and  valleys  in  the  moon. 
Then  the  moon  was  another  earth  ;  the  earth  another  planet ;  and  all  were  subject  to  the 
same  laws.     What  an  evidence  of  the  simplicity  and  the  magnificence  of  nature  ! 

But  at  length  he  turned  it  again,  still  directing  it  upward,  and  again  he  was  lost ;  fur 
he  was  now  among  the  fixed  stars  ;  and,  if  not  magnified  as  he  expected  them  to  be,  they 
were  multiplied  beyond  measure. 

What  a  moment  of  exultation  for  such  a  mind  as  his  !  But  as  yet  it  was  only  the  daw  a 
of  a  day  that  was  coming  ;  nor  was  he  destined  to  live  till  that  day  was  in  its  splendor. 
The  great  law  of  gravitation  was  not  yet  to  be  made  known  ;  and  how  little  did  he  think, 
as  he  held  the  instrument  in  his  hand,  that  we  should  travel  by  it  so  far  as  we  have  done  ; 
that  its  revelations  would  ere  long  be  so  glorious  ! 

Among  the  innumerable  stars  now  discovered,  and  at  every  improvement  of  the  tele 
scope  we  discover  more  and  more,  there  are  many  at  such  a  distance  from  this  little  planet 
of  ours,  that  "  their  light  must  have  taken  at  least  a  thousand  years  to  reach  us."  The 
intelligence  which  they  may  be  said  to  convey  to  us,  night  after  night,  must  therefore, 
when  we  receive  it,  be  a  thousand  years  old  ;  for  every  ray  that  comes  must  have  set  out 
as  long  ago  ;  and,  "  when  we  observe  their  places  and  note  their  changes,"  they  may  have 
ceased  to  exist  for  a  thousand  years. 

Nor  can  their  dimensions  be  less  wonderful  than  their  distances  ;  if  Sirius,  as  it  is  more 
than  conjectured,  be  nearly  equal  to  fourteen  suns,  and  there  are  others  that  surpass 
Sirius.  Yet  all  of  them  must  be  as  nothing  in  the  immensity  of  space,  and  amidst  the 
"  numbers  without  number  "  that  may  never  become  visible  here,  though  they  were  cre 
ated  in  the  beginning.  —  Sir  John  Herschel. 

(174)  Galileo  came  to  Arcetri  at  the  close  of  the  year  1633  ;  and  remained  there,  while 
he  lived,   by  an  order  of  the  Inquisition.*     It  is  without  the  walls,  near  the  Porta 
Romana. 

He  was  buried  with  all  honor  in  the  church  of  the  Santa  Croce. 

(175)  II  Giojello. 

(170)  Ariosto  himself  employed  much  of  his  time  in  gardening;  and  to  his  garden  at 
Ferrara  we  owe  many  a  verse. 

(177)  Milton  went  to  Italy  in  1638.     "  There  it  was,"  says  he,  "  that  I  found  and  visited 
the  famous  Galileo,  grown  old,  a  prisoner  to  the  Inquisition."    "  Old  and  blind,"  he  might 
have  said.    Galileo,  by  his  own  account,  became  blind  in  December,  1637.     Milton,  as  we 
learn  from  the  date  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  letter  to  him,  had  not  left  England  on  the  18th 
of  April  following.  — See  Tiraboschi,  and  Wotton's  Remains. 

(178)  it  has   pleased  God,  said  he,  that  I  should  be  blind ;  and  must  not  I  also  be 
pleased  ? 

*  For  believing  in  the  motion  of  the  earth.  "  They  may  issue  their  decrees,"  says  Pascal,  "  it  is  to 
no  purpose.  If  the  earth  is  really  turning  round,  all  innukind  together  cannot  keep  it  from  turning1, 
or  keep  themselves  from  turning  with  it."  —  Let  Provinciates,  xTJii. 


NOTES.  447 


(179)  If  \ve  may  judge  from  the  progress  which  our  language  has  made  and  is  making, 
where,  in  what  region,  however  distant,  may  it  not  prevail  ?    And  how  inspiring,  yet  how- 
awful  is  the  reflection  !  for  who  among  us  can  say  where  what  he  writes  will  not  be  read, 
—  where  the  seed  which  he  sows  will  not  spring  up  to  good  or  to  evil  ? 

"  I  care  not,"  says  Milton,  "  to  be  once  named  abroad,  though  perhaps  I  could  attain  to 
that ;  being  content  with  these  islands  as  my  world."  Yet  where  may  he  not  be  named, 
and  with  reverence  ?  Where  may  not  the  verse  which  he  delivered  in  trust  to  others,  as 
he  sate  dictating  in  his  darkness,  be  treasured  up  in  the  memories  and  in  the  hearts  of 
men  ;  his  language  being  theirs  ? 

(180)  If  such  was  their  lot  in  life,  if  it  was  theirs  to  live  under  discountenance  and  in 
blindness,  they  were  not  without  their  reward  ;  living,  as  so  many  have  done,  in  the  full 
assurance  that  their  labor  would  not  be  lost,  and  that  sooner  or  later  the  world  would  be 
the  happier  and  the  better  for  their  having  lived  in  it. 

(181)  They  rise  within  thirteen  miles  of  each  other. 

(182)  11  Sagro  Eremo. 

(183)  I  cannot  dismiss  Pisa  without  a  line  or  two  ;  for  much  do  I  owe  to  her.     If  Time 
has  levelled  her  ten  thousand  towers  (for,  like  Lucca,  she  was  "  torreggiata  a  guisa  d'un 
boschetto  "),  she  has  still  her  cathedral  and  her  baptistery,  her  belfry  and  her  cemetery  ; 
and  from  Time  they  have  acquired  more  than  they  have  lost. 

If  many  a  noble  monument  is  gone, 
That  said  how  glorious  in  her  day  she  was, 
There  is  a  sacred  place  within  her  walls, 
Sacred  and  silent,  save  when  they  that  die 
Come  there  to  rest,  and  they  that  live  to  pray, 
For  then  are  voices  heard,  crying  to  God, 
Where  yet  remain,  apart  from  all  things  else, 
Four  such  as  nowhere  on  the  earth  are  seen 
Assembled  5  and  at  even,  when  the  sun 
Sinks  in  the  west,  and  in  the  east  the  moon 
As  slowly  rises,  her  great  round  displaying 
Over  a  city  now  so  desolate  — 
Such  is  the  grandeur,  such  the  solitude, 
Such  their  dominion  in  that  solemn  hour, 
We  stand  and  gaze  and  wonder  where  we  are, 
In  this  world  or  another. 

(184)  It  was  in  this  manner  that  the  first  Sforza  went  down  when  he  perished  in  the 
Pesc&ra. 

0&3)  Michael  Angelo. 

(186)  A  description  of  the  Cartoon  of  Pisa. 

(187)  Petrarch,  as  we  learn  from  himself,  was  on  his  way  to  Ancisa  ;  whither  his  mother 
was  retiring.    He  was  seven  months  old  at  the  time. 

(188)  «  0  ego  quantus  eram,  gelidi  cum  stratus  ad  Arni 

Murmura,"  &c.  Epitaphium  Damonis. 

(189)  There  were  the  "  Nobili  di  Torre  "  and  the  "  Nobili  di  Loggia." 


448  NOTES. 

090)  Giovanni  Buondelmonte  was  on  the  point  of  marrying  an  Amidei,  when  a  widow 
of  the  Donati  family  made  him  break  his  engagement  in  the  manner  here  described. 

The  Amidei  washed  away  the  affront  with  his  blood,  attacking  him,  says  G.  Yillani,  at 
the  foot  of  the  Ponte  Yecchio,  as  he  was  coming  leisurely  along  in  his  white  mantle  on  his 
white  palfrey  ;  and  hence  many  years  of  slaughter. 

"  0  Buondelmonte,  quanto  mal  fuggisti 
Le  nozze  sue,  per  gli  altrui  conforti."  —  Dante. 

(191)  if  war  is  a  calamity,  what  a  calamity  must  be  civil  war  ;  for  how  cruel  are  the 
circumstances  which  it  gives  birth  to  ! 

"  I  had  served  long  in  foreign  countries,"  says  an  old  soldier,  "  and  had  borne  my  part 
in  the  sack  of  many  a  town  ;  but  there  I  had  only  to  deal  with  strangers  5  and  I  shall 
never  —  no,  never  —  forget  what  I  felt  to-day,  when  a  voice  in  my  own  language  cried 
out  to  me  for  quarter." 

(192)  The  story  is  Bolognese,  and  is  told  by  Cherubino  Ghiradacci  in  his  history  of  Bo 
logna.     Her  lover  was  of  the  Guelphic  party,  her  brothers  of  the  Ghibelline  $  and  no 
sooner  was  this  act  of  violence  made  known,  than  an  enmity,  hitherto  but  half-suppressed, 
broke  out  into  open  war.    The  Great  Place  was  a  scene  of  battle  and  bloodshed  for 
forty  successive  days  ;  nor  was  a  reconciliation  accomplished  till  six  years  afterwards, 
when  the  families  and  their  adherents  met  there  once  again,  and  exchanged  the  kiss  of 
peace  before  the  Cardinal  Legate  5  as  the  rival  families  of  Florence  had  already  done  in 
the  place  of  S.  Maria  Novella.    Every  house  on  the  occasion  was  hung  with  tapestry  and 
garlands  of  flowers. 

(193)  The  Saracens  had  introduced  among  them  the  practice  of  poisoning  their  daggers. 

(194)  it  is  remarkable  that  the  noblest  works  of  human  genius  have  been  produced  in 
times  of  tumult,  when  every  man  was  his  own  master,  and  all  things  were  open  to  all. 
Homer,  Dante  and  Milton,  appeared  in  such  times  ;  and  we  may  add  Virgil.* 

(195)  As  in  those  of  Cosmo  I.  and  his  son  Francis.  —  Sismondi,  xvi.  205. 

(196)  A  Sicilian,  the  inventress  of  many  poisons  ;  the  most  celebrated  of  which,  from  its 
transparency,  was  called  Acquetta  or  Acqua  Tophana. 

(197)  The  Cardinal,  Ferdinand  de'  Medici,  is  said  to  have  been  preserved  in  this  manner 
by  a  ring  which  he  wore  on  his  finger  ;  as  also  Andrea,  the  husband  of  Giovanna,  Queen 
of  Naples. 

(198)  il  Trabocchetto.  —  See  Vocab.  degli  Accadem.  della  Crusca.    See  also  Diet,  de 
VAcademie  Franpoise  :  art.  Oubliettes. 

(199)  Poggio-Ca'iano,  the  favorite  villa  of  Lorenzo  ;  where  he  often  took  the  diversion  of 
hawking.     Pulci  sometimes  went  out  with  him  ;  though,  it  seems,  with  little  ardor.     See 
La  Caccia  col  Falcone,  where  he  is  described  as  missing  ;  and  as  gone  into  a  wood,  to 
rhyme  there. 

(200)  The  Morgante  Maggiore,    He  used  to  recite  it  at  the  table  of  Lorenzo,  in  the 
manner  of  the  ancient  Rhapsodists. 

•  The  Augustan  age,  as  it  is  called,  what  was  it  but  a  dying  blaze  of  the  Commonwealth  ?  When 
Augustus  began  to  reign,  Cicero  and  Lucretius  were  dead,  Catullus  had  written  his  satires  against 
Cffisar,  and  Horace  and  Virgil  were  no  longer  in  their  first  youth.  Horace  had  served  under  Brutus  ; 
and  Virgil  had  been  pronounced  to  be 

"  Magnes  spes  altera  Romse." 


NOTES.  449 


(201)  Bianca  Capello. 


(202)  Caffaggidlo,  the  favorite  retreat  of  Cosmo,  "the  father  of  his  country."    Eleonora 
di  Toledo  was  stabbed  there  on  the  llth  of  July,  1576,  by  her  husband,  Pietro  de'  Medici  •, 
and  only  five  days  afterwards,  on  the  15th  of  the  same  month,  Isabella  de'  Medici  was 
strangled  by  hers,  Paolo  Giordano  Orsiui,  at  his  villa  of  Cerreto.     They  were  at  Florence, 
when  they  were  sent  for,  each  in  her  turn,  —  Isabella  under  the  pretext  of  a  hunting-party, 
—  and  each  in  her  turn  went  to  die. 

Isabella  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  accomplished  women  of  the  age.  In  the 
Latin,  French  and  Spanish  languages,  she  spoke  not  only  with  fluency,  but  elegance  ;  and 
in  her  own  she  excelled  as  an  improvisatrice,  accompanying  herself  on  the  lute.  On  her 
arrival  at  dusk,  Paolo  presented  her  with  two  beautiful  greyhounds,  that  she  might  make 
a  trial  of  their  speed  in  the  morning  ;  and  at  supper  he  was  gay  beyond  measure.  When 
he  retired,  he  sent  for  her  into  his  apartment ;  and,  pressing  her  tenderly  to  his  bosom, 
slipped  a  cord  round  her  neck.  She  was  buriei  in  Florence  with  great  pomp  :  but  at  her 
burial,  says  Varchi,  the  crime  divulged  itself.  Her  face  was  black  on  the  bier. 

Eleonora  appears  to  have  had  a  presentiment  of  her  fate.  She  went  when  required  ; 
but,  before  she  set  out,  took  leave  of  her  son,  then  a  child,  weeping  long  and  bitterly  over 
him. 

(203)  I  have  here  endeavored  to  describe  an  Italian  sunset  as  I  have  often  seen  it.    The 
conclusion  is  borrowed  from  that  celebrated  passage  in  Dante,  "  Era  gi&  1'ora,"  &c. 

(204)  Originally  thus  : 

But  let  us  hence.    For  now  the  sun  withdraws, 
Setting  to  rise  elsewhere,  —  elsewhere  to  rise, 
Gladdening  the  nations  that  expect  him  there  ; 
And  on  to  go,  dispensing  light  and  life, 
On,  while  his  absence  here  invites  to  sleep, 
Far  as  the  Indus  and  the  numerous  tribes 
That  on  their  faces  fall  to  hail  his  coming. 

(205)  Before  line  1,  in  the  MS. 

The  sun  ascended,  and  the  eastern  sky 
Flamed  like  a  furnace,  while  the  western  glowed 
As  if  another  day  was  dawning  there. 

(206)  The  Roman  and  the  Carthaginian.    Such  was  the  animosity,  says  Livy,  that  an 
earthquake,  which  turned  the  course  of  rivers  and  overthrew  cities  and  mountains,  was 
felt  by  none  of  the  combatants.  —  xxii.  5. 

(20")  A  tradition.     It  has  been  called,  from  time  immemorial,  II  Sanguinetto. 

(203)  An  allusion  to  the  Cascata  delle  Marmore,  a  celebrated  fall  of  the  Velino,  near 
Tend. 

(209)  A  sign  in  our  country  as  old  as  Shakspeare,  and  still  used  in  Italy.    "  Une  branche 
d'arbre,  attachee  £  une  maison  rustique,  nous  annonce  les  moyens  de  nous  rafraichir. 
Nous  y  trouvons  du  lait  et  des  csufs  frais  ;  nous  voild  contens."  —  Mem.  de  Goldini. 

There  is,  or  was  very  lately,  in  Florence  a  small  wine-house  with  this  inscription  over 
the  door  :  "  Al  buon  vino  non  bisogna  frasca."  Good  wine  needs  no  bush.  It  was  much 
frequented  by  Salvator  Rosa,  who  drew  a  portrait  of  his  hostess. 

(210)  This  upper  region,  a  country  of  dews  and  dewy  lights,  as  described  by  Virgil  and 

38* 


450  NOTES. 

Pliny,  and  still,  I  believe,  called  La  Rosa,  is  full  of  beautiful  scenery.    Who  does  not  wish 
to  follow  the  footsteps  of  Cicero  there,  to  visit  the  Reatine  Ternpe  and  the  Seven  Waters  ? 

(211)  Perhaps  the  most  beautiful  villa  of  that  day  was  the  Villa  Madama.    It  is  now  a 
ruin  ;  but  enough  remains  of  the  plan  and  the  grotesque-work  to  justify  Vasari's  account 
of  it.  ' 

The  Pastor  Fido,  if  not  the  Jwu'nta,used  to  be  often  represented  there  ;  and  a  theatre, 
such  as  is  here  described,  was  to  be  seen  in  the  gardens  very  lately. 

(212)  A  fashion  forever  reviving  in  such  a  climate.    In  the  year  1783,  the  Nina  of  Pae- 
Biello  was  performed  in  a  small  wood  near  Caserta. 

(213)  I  Tre  Mauri. 

(214)  What  poet  before  Shakspeare  has  availed  himself  of  the  phenomenon  here  alluded 
to,  a  phenomenon  so  awful  in  his  hands  ? 

(215)  A  Milanese  story  of  the  17th  century,  by  Alessandro  Manzoni. 
(21C)  See  the  Hecuba  of  Euripides,  v.  911,  &c. 

(217)  Such  was  the  enthusiasm  there  at  the  revival  of  art,  that  the  discovery  of  a 
precious  marble  was  an  event  for  celebration  ;  and,  in  the  instance  of  the  Laocoon,  it  was 
recorded  on  the  tomb  of  the  discoverer.     "  Felici  de  Fredis,  qui  ob  proprias  virtutes,  et 
repertum  Laocoontte  divinum  quod  in  Yaticano  cernes  fere1  respirans  simulacrum,  immor- 
talitatem  meruit,  A.  D.  1528."* 

The  Laocoon  was  found  in  the  baths  of  Titus,  and,  as  we  may  conclude,  in  the  very 
same  chamber  in  which  it  was  seen  by  the  elder  Pliny.  It  stood  alone  there  in  a  niche 
that  is  still  pointed  out  to  the  traveller  ;  t  and  well  might  it  be  hailed  by  the  poets  of  that 
day  !  What  a  moment  for  the  imagination,  when,  on  the  entrance  of  a  torch,  it  emerged 
at  once  from  the  darkness  of  so  long  a  night ! 

There  is  a  letter  on  the  subject,  written  by  Francesco  da  S.  Gallo,  in  1567. 

"  Some  statues  being  discovered  in  a  vineyard  near  S.  Maria  Maggiore,  the  Pope  said  to 
a  groom  of  the  stables,  '  Tell  Giuliano  da  S.  Gallo  to  go  and  see  them  ; '  and  my  father, 
when  he  received  the  message,  went  directly  to  Michael  Angelo  Buonarroti,  who  was 
always  to  be  found  at  home  (being  at  that  time  employed  on  the  Mausoleum),  and  they  set 
out  together  on  horseback  ;  I,  who  was  yet  a  child,  riding  on  the  crupper  behind  my 
father. 

"  When  they  arrived  there  and  went  down,  they  exclaimed,  '  This  is  the  Laocoon  of 
which  Pliny  makes  mention  ! '  and  the  opening  was  enlarged  that  the  marble  might  be 
taken  out  and  inspected  ;  and  they  returned  to  dinner,  discoursing  of  ancient  things." 

(218)  The  street  of  the  tombs  in  Pompeii  may  serve  to  give  us  some  idea  of  the  Yia 
Appia,  that  Pvegina  Yiarum,  in  its  splendor.    It  is  perhaps  the  most  striking  vestige  of 
antiquity  that  remains  to  us. 

(219)  And  Augustus  in  his  litter,  coming  at  a  still  slower  rate.    He  was  borne  along  by 
slaves  ;  and  the  gentle  motion  allowed  him  to  read,  write  and  employ  himself  as  in  hia 
cabinet.    Though  Tivoli  is  only  sixteen  miles  from  the  city,  he  was  always  two  nights  on 
the  road.  —  Suetonius. 

(220)  Nero. 

•  In  the  Church  of  Ara  Cccli. 

t  The  walls  and  the  niche  are  of  a  bright  vermilion.  See  Observation*  on  the  Colors  of  the  Ancients, 
by  Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  with  whom  I  visited  thii  chamber  in  1814. 


NOTES.  451 


(221)  At  the  words  "  Tu  Marcellus  eris."    The  story  ia  so  beautiful  that  every  reader 
must  wish  it  to  be  true. 

(222)  From  the  golden  pillar  in  the  Forum  the  ways  ran  to  the  gates,  and  from  the  gates 
to  the  extremities  of  the  empire. 

(223)  It  was  Caius  Gracchus  who  introduced  vehement  action  and  the  practice  of  walk 
ing  to  and  fro  when  they  spoke.  —  Dio.fragm.  xxxiv.  00. 

(224)  The  laws  of  the  twelve  tables  were  inscribed  on  pillars  of  brass,  and  placed  in  the 
most  conspicuous  part  of  the  Forum.  —  Dion.  Hal. 

(225)  "  Amplitude  tanta  est,  ut  conspiciatur  a  Latiario  Jove."  —  C.  Plin. 

(226)  The  Rostra. 

(227)  Marcus  .Tunius  Brutus. 

(228)  We  are  told  that  Caesar  passed  the  Rubicon  and  overthrew  the  Commonwealth  ; 
but  the  seeds  of  destruction  were  already  in  the  Senate-house,  the  Forum,  and  the  Camp. 
When  Caesar  fell,  was  liberty  restored  ? 

History,  as  well  as  poetry,  delights  in  a  hero,  and  is  forever  ascribing  to  one  what  was 
the  work  of  many  ;  for,  as  men,  we  are  flattered  by  such  representations  of  human  great 
ness  ;  forgetting  how  often  leaders  are  led,  and  overlooking  the  thousand  thousand 
springs  of  action  by  which  the  events  of  the  world  are  brought  to  pass. 

(229)  It  was  in  the  Via  Sacra  that  Horace,  when  musing  along  as  usual,  was  so  cruelly 
assailed  ;  and  how  well  has  he  described  an  animal  that  preys  on  its  kind  !     It  was  there 
also  that  Cicero  was  assailed  ;  but  he  bore  his  sufferings  with  less  composure,  as  well 
indeed  he  might ;  taking  refuge  in  the  vestibule  of  the  nearest  house.  —  Ad  Alt.  iv.  3. 

(230)  An  allusion  to  Caesar  in  his  Gallic  triumph.     "  Adscendit  Capitolium  ad  lumina," 
&c.  —  Suetonius. 

(231)  In  the  triumph  of  JSmilus,  nothing  affected  the  Roman  people  like  the  children  of 
Perseus.     Many  wept ;  nor  could  anything  else  attract  notice  till  they  were  gone  by.  — 
Plutarch. 

(232)  "  Rien  ne  servit  mieux  Rome,  que  le  respect  qu'elle  imprima  £  la  terre.    Elle  mit 
d'abord  les  rois  dans  le  silence,  et  les  rendit  comme  stupides.    II  ne  s'agissoit  pas  du  degre 
de  leur  puissance  ;  mais  leur  personne  propre  etoit  attaquee.    Risquer  une  guerre,  c'etoit 
s'exposer  £  la  captivite,  &  la  mort,  4  1'infamie  du  triomphe."  — Montesquieu. 

(233)  Perseus. 

(234)  Jugurtha. 

(235)  Zenobia. 

(236)  "Spare  me,  I  pray,  this  indignity,"  said  Perseus  to  JEmilius.     "Make  me  not  a 
public  spectacle  ;  drag  me  not  through  your  streets."  —  "  What  you  ask  for,"  replied  the 
Roman,  "  is  in  your  own  power."  —  Plutarch. 

(237)  Cleopatra. 

(238)  Sophonisba.    The  story  of  the  marriage  and  the  poison  is  well  known  to  every 
reader. 

(239)  The  Pantheon. 


452  NOTES. 


(240)  The  transfiguration  ;  "  la  quale  opera,  nel  vedere  il  corpo  morto,  e  quella  viva, 
faceva  scoppiare  1'anima  di  dolore  a  ogni  uno  che  quivi  guardava."  —  Vasari. 

(241)  «  You  admire  that  picture,"  said  an  old  Dominican  to  me  at  Padua,  as  I  stood  con 
templating  a  Last  Supper  in  the  Refectory  of  his  convent,  the  figures  as  large  as  the  life. 
"  I  have  sat  at  my  meals  before  it  for  seven  and  forty  years  •,  and  such  are  the  changes 
that  have  taken  place  among  us,  —  so  many  have  come  and  gone  in  the  time,  —  that,  when 
I  look  upon  the  company  there,  —  upon  those  who  are  sitting  at  that  table,  silent  as  they 
are,  —  I  am  sometimes  inclined  to  think  that  we,  and  not  they,  are  the  shadows." 

The  celebrated  fresco  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci  in  the  monastery  of  Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie, 
at  Milan,  must  again  and  again  have  suggested  the  same  reflection.  Opposite  to  it  stood 
the  prior's  table,  the  monks  sitting  down  the  chamber  on  the  right  and  left ;  and  the  artist, 
throughout  his  picture,  has  evidently  endeavored  to  make  it  correspond  with  what  he  saw- 
when  they  were  assembled  there.  The  table-cloth,  with  the  corners  tied  up,  and  with  its 
regular  folds  as  from  the  press,  must  have  been  faithfully  copied  ;  and  the  dishes  and 
drinking-cups  are,  no  doubt,  such  as  were  used  by  the  fathers  in  that  day.  —  See  Goethe, 
vol.  xxxix.  p.  94. 

Indefatigable  was  Lionardo  in  the  prosecution  of  this  work.  "  I  have  seen  him,"  says 
Bandello  the  novelist,  "  mount  the  scaffold  at  daybreak  and  continue  there  till  night,  for 
getting  to  eat  or  drink.  Not  but  that  he  would  sometimes  leave  it  for  many  days  together, 
and  then  return  only  to  meditate  upon  it,  or  to  touch  and  retouch  it  here  and  there."  The 
prior  was  forever  complaining  of  the  little  progress  that  he  made,  and  the  duke  at  last 
consented  to  speak  to  him  on  the  subject.  His  answer  is  given  by  Vasari.  "  Perhaps  I 
am  then  most  busy  when  I  seem  to  be  most  idle,  for  I  must  think  before  I  execute.  But, 
think  as  I  will,  there  are  two  persons  at  the  supper  to  whom  I  shall  never  do  justice,  — 
our  Lord  and  the  disciple  who  betrayed  him.  Now,  if  the  prior  would  but  sit  to  me  for  the 
last  — " 

The  prior  gave  him  no  more  trouble. 

(242)  A  dialogue  which  is  said  to  have  passed  many  years  ago  at  Lyons  (Mem.  de  Gram- 
mont,  i.  3),  and  which  may  still  be  heard  in  almost  every  hotellerie  at  daybreak. 

(243)  How  noble  is  that  burst  of  eloquence  in  Hooker  !     "  Of  law  there  can  be  no  less 
acknowledged,  than  that  her  seat  is  the  bosom  of  God,  her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world. 
All  things  in  heaven  and  earth  do  her  homage  ;  the  very  least  as  feeling  her  care,  and  the 
greatest  as  not  exempted  from  her  power. 

(244)  As  the  descendants  of  an  illustrious  people  have  lately  done. 

They  know  their  strength,  and  know  that,  to  be  free, 
They  have  but  to  deserve  it. 

(245)  Candor,  generosity  and  justice,  how  rare  are  they  in  the  world  ;  and  how  much  is 
to  be  deplored  the  want  of  them  !     When  a  minister  in  our  parliament  consents  at  last  to 
a  measure,  which,  for  many  reasons  perhaps  existing  no  longer,  he  had  before  refused  to 
adopt,  there  should  be  no  exultation  as  over  the  fallen,  no  taunt,  no  jeer.     How  often  may 
the  resistance  be  continued  lest  an  enemy  should  triumph,  and  the  result  of  conviction  be 
received  as  a  symptom  of  fear  ! 

(246)  Are  we  not  also  unjust  to  ourselves  ;  and  are  not  the  best  among  us  the  most  so  ? 
Many  a  good  deed  is  done  by  us  and  forgotten.    Our  benevolent  feelings  are  indulged,  and 
we  think  no  more  of  it.     But  is  ib  so  when  we  err  ?     And  when  we  wrong  another  and 
cannot  redress  the  wrong,  where  are  we  then  ?    Yet  so  it  is,  and  so  no  doubt  it  should  be, 
to  urge  us  on  without  ceasing,  in  this  place  of  trial  and  discipline, 

From  good  to  better  and  to  better  still. 


NOTES.  453 

(24?)  The  author  of  the  Letters  to  Julia  has  written  admirably  on  this  subject. 
"  All  sad,  all  silent !     O'er  the  ear 

No  sound  of  cheerful  toil  is  swelling. 
Earth  has  no  quickening  spirit  here, 
Nature  no  charm,  and  man  no  dwelling  !  " 

Not  less  admirably  has  he  described  a  Roman  beauty ;  such  as  "  weaves  her  spella 
beyond  the  Tiber." 

"  Methinks  the  Furies  with  their  snakes, 

Or  Venus  with  her  zone,  might  gird  her  ; 
Of  fiend  and  goddess  she  partakes, 
And  looks  at  once  both  Love  and  Murder." 

(248)  Mons  Albanus,  now  called  Monte  Cavo.     On  the  summit  stood  for  many  centuries 
the  temple  of  Jupiter  Latiaris.     "  Tuque  ex  tuo  edito  monte  Latiaris,  sancte  Jupiter,"  &c. 
—  Cicero. 

(249)  jEneid,  xii.  134. 

(250)  Nisus  and  Euryalus.    "  La  scene  des  six  derniers  livres  de  Virgile  ne  comprend 
qu'une  lieue  de  terrain."  —  Bonstetten. 

(251)  Forty-seven,  according  to  Dionys,  Halicar.  I.  i. 

(252)  Tivoli. 

(253)  Palestrina. 

(254)  La  Riccia. 

(255)  "Horatiorum  qu&  viret  sacer  campus."  —  Mart. 

(256)  "  Quag  prata  Quintia  vocantur."  —  Livy. 

(257)  Mons  Sacer. 

(258)  It  was  not  always  so.     There  were  once  within  her  walls  "  more  erected  spirits." 
"  Let  me  recall  to  your  mind,"  says  Petrarch,  in  a  letter  to  old  Stephen  Colonna,  "  the 

walk  we  took  together  at  a  late  hour  in  the  broad  street  that  leads  from  your  palace  to  the 
Capitol.  To  me  it  seems  as  yesterday,  though  it  was  ten  years  ago.  When  we  arrived 
where  the  four  ways  meet,  we  stopped  5  and,  none  interrupting  us,  discoursed  long  on  the 
fallen  fortunes  of  your  house.  Fixing  your  eyes  steadfastly  upon  me  and  then  turning 
them  away  full  of  tears,  '  I  have  nothing  now,'  you  said,  '  to  leave  my  children.  But  a 
still  greater  calamity  awaits  me, —  I  shall  inherit  from  them  all.'  You  remember  the  words, 
no  doubt ;  words  so  fully  accomplished.  I  certainly  do  ;  and  as  distinctly  as  the  old 
sepulchre  in  the  corner,  on  which  we  were  leaning  with  our  elbows  at  the  time."  —  Epist* 
Famil.  viii.  1. 

The  sepulchre  here  alluded  to  must  have  been  that  of  Bibulus  ;  and  what  an  interest  it 
derives  from  this  anecdote  !  Stephen  Colonna  was  a  hero  worthy  of  antiquity  ;  and  in  his 
distress  was  an  object,  not  of  pity,  but  of  reverence.  When  overtaken  by  his  pursuers 
and  questioned  by  those  who  knew  him  not,  "  I  am  Stephen  Colonna,"  he  replied,  "  a 
citizen  of  Rome  !  "  and  when,  in  the  last  extremity  of  battle,  a  voice  cried  out  to  him, 
"  Where  is  now  your  fortress,  Colonna  ?  "  "Here  !  "  he  answered  gayly,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  heart. 

(259)  Music  ;  and  from  the  loftiest  strain  to  the  lowliest,  from  a  Miserere  in  the  Holy 


454  NOTES. 


Week  to  the  shepherd's  humble  offering  in  advent ;  the  last,  if  we  may  judge  from  its 
effects,  not  the  least  subduing,  perhaps  the  most  so. 

Once,  as  I  was  approaching  Frescati  in  the  sunshine  of  a  cloudless  December  morning,  I 
observed  a  rustic  group  by  the  road-side,  before  an  image  of  the  Virgin,  that  claimed  the 
devotions  of  the  passenger  from  a  niche  in  a  vineyard  wall.  Two  young  men  from  the 
mountains  of  the  Abruzzi,  in  their  long  brown  cloaks,  were  playing  a  Christmas  carol. 
Their  instruments  were  a  hautboy  and  a  bagpipe  ;  and  the  air,  wild  and  simple  as  it  was, 
was  such  as  she  might  accept  with  pleasure.  The  ingenuous  and  smiling  countenances  of 
these  rude  minstrels,  who  seemed  so  sure  that  she  heard  them,  and  the  unaffected  delight 
of  their  little  audience,  all  younger  than  themselves,  all  standing  uncovered,  and  moving 
their  lips  in  prayer,  would  have  arrested  the  most  careless  traveller. 

(260)  Whoever  has  entered  the  Church  of  St.  Peter's  or  the  Pauline  Chapel,  during  the 
exposition  of  the  Holy  Sacrament  there,  will  not  soon  forget  the  blaze  of  the  altar,  or  the 
dark  circle  of  worshippers  kneeling  in  silence  before  it. 

(261)  An  allusion  to  the  saying  of  Archimedes,  "  Give  me  a  place  to  stand  upon,  and  I 
will  move  the  earth." 

(262)  An  allusion  to  the  prophecies  concerning  Antichrist.     See  the  interpretations  of 
Mede,  Newton,  Clarke,  &c.  ;  not  to  mention  those  of  Dante  and  Petrarch. 

(263)  It  was  at  such  a  moment,  when  contemplating  the  young  and  the  beautiful,  that 
Tasso  conceived  his  sonnets,  beginning  "  Vergine  pia,"  and  "  Vergine  bella."     Those  to 
whom  he  addressed  them  have  long   been  forgotten  ;  though  they  were  as  much  perhaps 
to  be  loved,  and  as  much  also  to  be  pitied. 

(264)  Her  back  was  at  that  time  turned  to  the  people  ;  but  in  his  countenance  might  be 
read  all  that  was  passing.    The  cardinal,  who  officiated,  was  a  venerable  old  man,  evi 
dently  unused  to  the  service,  and  much  affected  by  it. 

(265)  Among  other  ceremonies,  a  pall  was  thrown  over  her,  and  a  requiem  sung. 

(266)  He  is  of  the  beetle-tribe. 

(267)  "  For,  in  that  upper  clime,  effulgence  comes 
Of  gladness."  —  Card's  Dante. 

(268)  There  is  a  song  to  the  lucciola  in  every  dialect  of  Italy  ;  as,  for  instance,  in  the 
Genoese. 

"  Cabela,  vegni  a  baso  ; 
Ti  dajo  un  cuge  de  lette." 

The  Roman  is  in  a  higher  strain. 

"  Bella  regina,"  &c. 

(269)  "  Io  piglio,  quando  il  dl  giunge  al  confine, 
Le  lucciole  ne'  prati  ampj  ridotte, 
E,  come  gemme,  le  comparto  al  crine  ; 
Poi  fra  1'  ombre  da'  rai  vivi  interrotte 
Mi  presento  ai  Pastori,  e  ognun  mi  dice  ; 
Clori  ha  la  stelle  al  criii  come  ha  la  Notte." 

Varano. 

(270)  Pliny  mentions  an  extraordinary  instance  of  longevity  in  the  ilex.  "  There  is 
one,"  says  he,  "  in  the  Vatican,  older  than  the  city  itself.  An  Etruscan  inscription  in  let 
ters  of  brass  attests  that  even  in  those  days  the  tree  was  held  sacred." 


NOTES.  455 


(271)  I  did  not  tell  you  that  just  below  the  first  fall,  on  the  side  of  the  rock,  and  hanging 
over  that  torrent,  are  little  ruins  which  they  show  you  for  Horace's  house,  a  curious  situa 
tion  to  observe  the 

"  Prseceps  Anio,  et  Tiburni  lucus,  et  uda 
Mobilibus  pomaria  rivis."  Gray's  Letters, 

(272)  The  glow-worm. 

(273)  We  were  now  within  a  few  hours  of  the  Campania  Felix.    On  the  color  and  flavor 
of  Falernian  consult  Galen  and  Dioscorides. 

(274)  As,  indeed,  it  always  was,  contributing  those  of  every  degree,  from  a  milord  with 
his  suite,  to  him  whose  only  attendant  is  his  shadow.     Coryate,  in  1608,  performed  his 
journey  on  foot ;  and,  returning,  hung  up  his  shoes  in  his  village  church  as  an  ex-voto. 
Goldsmith,  a  century  and  a  half  afterwards,  followed  in  nearly  the  same  path  ;  playing  a 
tune  on  his  flute  to  procure  admittance,  whenever  he  approached  a  cottage  at  night-fall. 

(275)  We  cross  a  narrow  sea  ;  we  land  on  a  shore  which  we  have  contemplated  from  our 
own  ;  and  we  awake,  as  it  were,  in  another  planet.    The  very  child  that  lisps  there  lisps 
in  words  which  we  have  yet  to  learn. 

Nor  is  it  less  interesting,  if  less  striking,  to  observe  the  gradations  in  language,  and 
feature,  and  character,  as  we  travel  on  from  kingdom  to  kingdom.  The  French  peasant 
becomes  more  and  more  an  Italian  as  we  approach  Italy,  and  a  Spaniard  as  we  approach 
Spain. 

(276)  To  judge  at  once  of  a  nation,  we  have  only  to  throw  our  eyes  on  the  markets  and 
the  fields.    If  the  markets  are  well  supplied,  the  fields  well  cultivated,  all  is  right.    If 
otherwise,  we  may  say,  and  say  truly,  these  people  are  barbarous  or  oppressed. 

(277)  Assuredly  not,  if  the  last  has  laid  a  proper  foundation.    Knowledge  makes  knowl 
edge  as  money  makes  money,  nor  ever  perhaps  so  fast  as  on  a  journey. 

(278)  For  that  knowledge,  indeed,  which  is  the  most  precious,  we  have  not  far  to  go  ; 
and  how  often  is  it  to  be  found  where  least  it  is  looked  for  !     "  I  have  learned  more,"  said 
a  dying  man  on  the  scaffold,  "  in  one  little  dark  corner  of  yonder  tower,  than  by  any  travel 
in  so  many  places  as  I  have  seen."  —  Holinshed. 

(279)  The  place  here  described  is  near  Mola  di  Gaeta,  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples. 

(280)  Alluding  to  Alfonso  Piccolomini.      "  Stupiva  ciascuno  che',  mentre  un  bandito 
osservava  rigorosamente  la  sua  parola,  il  Papa  non  avesse  ribrezzo  di  mancare  alia  pro- 
pria."  —  Galluzzi,  ii.  364.     He  was  hanged  at  Florence,  March  16, 1591. 

(281)  Tasso  was  returning  from  Naples  to  Rome,  and  had  arrived  at  Mola  Di  Gaeta, 
when  he  received  this  tribute  of  respect.     The  captain  of  the  troop  was  Marco  di  Sciarra. 
—  See  Manso,  "  Vita  del  Tasso."    Ariosto  had  a  similar  adventure  with  Filippo  Pac- 
chione.  —  See  Garafalo. 

(282)  "  Cette  race  de  bandits  a  ses  racines  dans  la  population  m&ne  du  pays.     La  police 
ne  sait  oil  les  trouver."  —  Lettres  de  Chateauvieux. 

(283)  This  story  was  written  in  the  year  1820,  and  is  founded  on  the  many  narratives 
which  at  that  time  were  circulating  in  Rome  and  Naples. 

(284)  "  Pray  that  you  may  pray,"  said  a  venerable  pastor  to  one  who  came  to  lament 
that  he  had  lost  the  privilege  of  prayer. 

It  is  related  of  a  great  transgressor  that  he  awaked  at  last  to  reflection  as  from  a  dream, 
and  on  his  knees  had  recourse  to  the  prayer  of  his  childhood. 


456  NOTES. 


(285)  tin  pezzo  di  cielo  eaduto  in  terra.  — •  Sannazaro. 

(286)  if  the  bay  of  Naples  is  still  beautiful,  —  if  it  still  deserves  the  epithet  of  pulche.r- 
rimus,  —  what  must  it  not  once  have  been  5  *  and  who,  as  he  sails  round  it,  can  imagine 
it  to  himself  as  it  was,  when  not  only  the  villas  of  the  Romans  were  in  their  splendor,! 
but  the  temples  ;  when  those  of  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii  and  Baiae  and  Puteoli,  and 
how  many  more,  were  standing,  each  on  its  eminence  or  on  the  margin  of  the  sea  ;  while, 
with  choral  music  and  with  a  magnificence  that  had  exhausted  the  wealth  of  kingdoms,  J 
the  galleys  of  the  imperial  court  were  anchoring  in  the  shade,  or  moving  up  and  down  in 
the  sunshine. 

(287)  Virgil. 

(288)  Quarum  sacra  fero,  ingenti  percussus  amore. 

(289)  The  Tarantella. 

(290)  Caprea;. 

(291)  Tiberius. 

(292)  "  How  often,  to  demonstrate  his  power,  does  he  employ  the  meanest  of  his  instru 
ments  }  as  in  Egypt,  when  he  called  forth,  not  the  serpents  and  the  monsters  of  Africa, 
but  vermin  from  the  very  dust  !  " 

(293)  The  elder  Pliny.     See  the  letter  in  which  his  nephew  relates  to  Tacitus  the  circum 
stances  of  his  death.  —  In  the  morning  of  that  day  Vesuvius  was  covered  with  the  most 
luxuriant  vegetation  ;  §  every  elm  had  its  vine,  every  vine  (for  it  was  in  the  month  of 
August)  its  clusters  ;  nor  in  the  cities  below  was  there  a  thought  of  danger,  though  their 
interment  was  so  soon  to  take  place.    In  Pompeii,  if  we  may  believe  Dion  Cassius,  the 
people  were  sitting  in  the  theatre  when  the  work  of  destruction  began. 

(294)  Pompeii. 

(295)  Pansa,  the  JEdile,  according  to  some  of  the  interpreters ;  but  the  inscription  at 
the  entrance  is  very  obscure. 

It  is  remarkable  that  Cicero,  when  on  his  way  to  Cilicia,  was  the  bearer  of  a  letter  to 
Atticus  "  ex  Pansse  Pompeiano."  ||  (Ad.  Att.  v.  3.)  That  this  was  the  house  in  question, 
and  that  in  the  street,  as  we  passed  along,  we  might  have  met  him,  coming  or  going,  every 
pilgrim  to  Pompeii  must  wish  to  believe. 

But,  delighting  in  the  coast  and  in  his  own  Pompeianum  (Ad.  Att.  ii.  1),  he  could  be  no 
stranger  in  that  city  ;  and  often  must  he  have  received  there  such  homage  as  ours. 

(296)  In  a  time  of  revolution  he  could  not  escape  unhurt ;  but  to  the  last  he  preserved 
his  gayety  of  mind  through  every  change  of  fortune  ;  living  right  hospitably  when  he  had 
the  means  to  do  so,  and,  when  he  could  not  entertain,  dining  as  he  is  here  represented, 
with  his  velvet  friends  —  enfamille. 

(29")  La  Croce  Bianca. 

»  "  Antequam  Vesuvius  mons,  ardescens,  faciem  loci  verteret." —  Tacit.  "Annal."  iv.  67. 

t  With  their  groves  and  porticos  they  were  everywhere  along  the  shore,  "  erat  enim  frequens  atnce- 
nitas  orse  ;  "  and  what  a  neighborhood  must  have  been  there  in  the  last  days  of  the  Commonwealth, 
when  such  men  as  Caesar,  and  Pompey,  and  Lucullus,  and  Cicero,  and  Hortensius,  and  Brutus,  wers 
continually  retiring-  thither  from  the  cares  of  public  life  1 

J  "  Gemmatis  puppibus,  versicoloribus  velis,"  &c.  — Sueton.  "  Calig."  37. 

§  Martial.  IV.  44. 
According  to  Graevius.    The  manuscripts  disagree. 


NOTES.  457 


(298)  "  Oe  pourroit  £tre,"  says  Bayle,  "  la  matie're  d'un  joli  probl&ne  :  on  pourroit  ex 
aminer  si  cette  fille  avanc.oit,  ou  si  elle  retardoit  le  profit  de  ses  auditeurs,  en  leur  cachant 
son  beau  visage.    II  y  auroit  cent  choses  a  dire  pour  et  centre  la-dessus." 

(299)  I  cannot  here  omit  some  lines  by  a  friend  of  mine  now  no  more. 

For  who  would  make  his  life  a  life  of  toil 

For  wealth,  o'erbalanced  with  a  thousand  cares  ; 

Or  power,  which  base  compliance  must  uphold  ; 

Or  honor,  lavished  most  on  courtly  slaves  ; 

Or  fame,  vain  breath  of  a  misjudging  world  ; 

Who  for  such  perishable  gauds  would  put 

A  yoke  upon  his  free  unbroken  spirit, 

And  gall  himself  with  trammels  and  the  rubs 

Of  this  world's  business  ?  Lewesdon  Hill. 

(300)  The  temples  of  Psestum  are  three  in   number  5  and  have  survived,  nearly  nine 
centuries,  the  total  destruction  of  the  city.    Tradition  is  silent  concerning  them  ;  but  they 
must  have  existed  now  between  two  and  three  thousand  years. 

(301)  gpartacus.     See  Plutarch  in  the  Life  of  Crassus. 

(302)  The  violets  of  Psestum  were  as  proverbial  as  the  roses.    Martial  mentions  them 
with  the  honey  of  Hybla. 

(303)  The  introduction  to  his  Treatise  on  Glory.  —  Cic.  ad  Att.  xvi.  6.    For  an  account 
of  the  loss  of  that  treatise,  see  Petrarch,  Epist.  Rer.  Seniiium,  xv.  1,  and  Bayle,  Diet., 
in  Aleyonius. 

(304)  They  are  said  to  have  been  discovered  by  accident  about  the  middle  of  the  last 
century. 

(305)  Originally  a  Greek  city  under  that  name,  and  afterwards  a  Roman  city  under  the 
name  of  Pajstum.    It  was  surprised  and  destroyed  by  the  Saracens  at  the  beginning  of  the 
tenth  century. 

(3C6)  Athanaeus,  xiv. 

(307)  The  Mal'aria. 

(308)  Tasso.    Sorrento,  his  birthplace,  is  on  the  south  side  of  the  Gulf  of  Naples. 

(309)  «  Amaia  fell,  after  three  hundred  years  of  prosperity  ;  but  the  poverty  of  one 
thousand  fishermen  is  yet  dignified  by  the  remains  of  an  arsenal,  a  cathedral,  and  the 
palaces  of  royal  merchants."  —  Gibbon. 

(310)  China.    After  this  line,  in  the  MS. 

That  wall,  so  massive,  so  interminable, 
Forever,  with  its  battlements  and  towers, 
Climbing,  descending,  from  assault  to  guard 
A  people  numerous  as  the  ocean  sands, 
And  glorying  as  the  mightiest  of  mankind  ; 
Yet  where  they  are  contented  to  remain  ; 
From  age  to  age  resolved  to  cultivate 
Peace  and  the  arts  of  peace,  —  turning  to  gold 
The  very  ground  they  tread  on,  and  the  leaves 
They  gather  from  their  trees,  year  after  year.* 

•  An  allusion  to  the  porcelain  and  the  tea  of  the  Chiness. 

39 


458  NOTES. 

(311)  There  is  at  this  day  in  Syracuse  a  street  called  La  Strada  degli  Amalfitani. 

(312)  In  the  year  839.     See  Muratori :  Art.  Chronici  Amalphitani  Fragmenta. 

(313)  By  degrees,  says  Giannone,  they  made  themselves  famous  through  the  world.    The 
Tarini  Amalfitani  were  a  coin  familiar  to  all  nations  ;  and  their  maritime  code  regulated 
everywhere  the  commerce  of  the  sea.     Many  churches  in  the  East  were  by  them  built  and 
endowed ;  by  them  was  founded  in  Palestine  that  most  renowned  military  Order  of  St. 
John  of  Jerusalem  ;  and  who  does  not  know  that  the  mariner's  compass  was  invented  by 
a  citizen  of  Amalfi  ? 

Glorious  was  their  course, 
And  long  the  track  of  light  they  left  behind  them. 

(314)  The  Abbey  of  Monte  Cassino  is  the  most  ancient  and  venerable  house  of  the  Bene 
dictine  order.   It  is  situated  within  fifteen  leagues  of  Naples,  on  the  inland  road  to  Rome  ; 
and  no  house  is  more  hospitable. 

(315)  This  story  —  if  a  story  it  maybe  called  —  is  fictitious;  and  I  have  done  little 
more  than  give  it  as  I  received  it. 

(316)  Michael  Angelo. 

(317)  There  are  many  miraculous  pictures  in  Italy,  but  none,  I  believe,  were  ever  before 
described  as  malignant  in  their  influence.    At  Arezzo,  in  the  Church  of  St.  Angelo,  there  is 
indeed  over  the  great  altar  a  fresco-painting  of  the  fall  of  the  angels,  which  has  a  singular 
story  belonging  to  it.     It  was  painted  in  the  fourteenth  century  by  Spinello  Aretino,  who 
has  there  represented  Lucifer  as  changed  into  a  shape  so  monstrous  and  terrible  that  he 
is  said  in  that  very  shape  to  have  haunted  the  artist  in  his  dreams,  and  to  have  hastened 
his  death ;  crying,  night  after  night,  "  Where  hast  thou  seen  me  in  a  shape  so  mon 
strous  ?  "    In  the  upper  part  St.  Michael  is  seen  in  combat  with  the  dragon  :  the  fatal 
transformation  is  in  the  lower  part  of  the  picture.  —  Fasari. 

(318)  Then  degraded,  and  belonging  to  a  Vetturino. 

(319)  A  Florentine  family  of  great  antiquity.     In  the  sixty-third  novel  of  Franco  Sac- 
chetti  we  read  that  a  stranger,  suddenly  entering  Giotto's  study,  threw  down  a  shield  and 
departed,  saying,  "  Paint  me  my  arms  in  that  shield  ;  "  and  that  Giotto,  looking  after  him, 
exclaimed,  "  Who  is  he  ?     What  is  he  ?    He  says,  Paint  me  my  arms,  as  if  he  were  one 
of  the  Bardi  !     What  arms  does  he  bear  ?  " 

(320)  A  large  boat  for  rowing  and  sailing,  much  used  in  the  Mediterranean. 

(321)  Paganino  Doria,  Nicolo  Pisani  ;  those  great  seamen,  who  balanced  for  so  many 
years  the  fortunes  of  Genoa  and  Venice. 

(322)  Every  reader  of  Spanish  poetry  is  acquainted  with  that  affecting  romance  of 
Gongora, 

"  Amarrado  al  duro  banco,"  &c. 

Lord  Holland  has  translated  it  in  his  excellent  Life  of  Lope  de  Vega. 

(323)  There  is  a  custom  on  the  continent  well  worthy  of  notice.    In  Boulogne  we  read,  as 
we  ramble  through  it,  "  Ici  est  mort  1'Auteur  de  Gil  Bias  ;  "  in  Rouen,  "  Ici  est  ne~  Pierre 
Corneille  ;  "  in  Geneva,  u  Ici  est  ne  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau  ;  "  and  in  Dijon  there  is  the 
Maison  Bossuet ;  in  Paris,  the  Quai  Voltaire.    Very  rare  are  such  memorials  among  us  ; 
and  yet,  wherever  we  meet  with  them,  —  in  whatever  country  they  were,  or  of  whatever 


NOTES.  459 

age,  —  we  should  surely  say  that  they  were  evidences  of  refinement  and  sensibility  in  the 
people.  The  house  of  Pindar  was  spared 

when  temple  and  tower 
Went  to  the  ground  ; 

and  its  ruins  were  held  sacred  to  the  last.  According  to  Pausanias,  they  were  still  to  be 
seen  in  the  second  century. 

(324)  The  Piazza  Doria,  or,  as  it  is  now  called,  the  Piazza  di  San  Matteo,  insignificant 
as  it  may  be  thought,  is  to  me  the  most  interesting  place  in  Genoa.    It  was  there  that 
Doria  assembled  the  people,  when  he  gave  them  their  liberty  (Sigonii  Vita  DOTIOE)  ;  and 
on  one  side  of  it  is  the  church  he  lies  buried  in,  on  the  other  a  house,  originally  of  very 
small  dimensions,  with  this  inscription  :  S.  C.  Andreae  de  Auria  Patriae  Liberatori  Munua 
Publicum. 

The  streets  of  old  Genoa,  like  those  of  Venice,  were  constructed  only  for  foot-passengers. 

(325)  When  I  saw  it  in  1822,  a  basket-maker  lived  on  the  ground-floor,  and  over  him  a 
seller  of  chocolate. 

(326)  Alluding  to  the  palace  which  he  built  afterwards,  and  in  which  he  twice  entertained 
the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth.    It  is  the  most  magnificent  edifice  on  the  Bay  of  Genoa. 

(327)  Fiesco.     For  an  account  of  his  conspiracy,  see  Robertson's  History  of  Charles  the 
Fifth. 

(328)  Such  as  the  Gabelles  formerly  in  France  ;  "  011  le  droit,"  says  Montesquieu,  "  ex- 
cedoit  de  dix-sept  fois  la  valeur  de  la  marchandise."     Salt  is  an  article  of  which  none 
know  the  value  who  have  not  known  the  want  of  it. 

(329)  Who  he  is  I  have  yet  to  learn.    The  story  was  told  to  me  many  years  ago  by  a 
great  reader  of  the  old  annalists  ;  but  I  have  searched  everywhere  for  it  in  vain. 

(330)  Written  at  Susa,  May  1,  1822. 

(331)  The  Po.     "  Chaque  maison  est  pourvue  de  bateaux,  et  lorsque  1'inondation  s'an- 
nonce,"  &c.  — Lettres  de  Chateauvieux, 

(332)  It  was  somewhere  in  the  Maremma,  a  region  so  fatal  to  so  many,  that  the  unhappy 
Pia,  a  Siennese  lady  of  the  family  of  Tolommei,  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  jealousy  of  her  hus 
band.    Thither  he  conveyed  her  in  the  sultry  time, 

"  tra'l  Luglio  e'l  Settembre  ;  " 

having  resolved  in  his  heart  that  she  should  perish  there,  even  though  he  perished  there 
with  her.  Not  a  word  escaped  from  him  on  the  way,  not  a  syllable  in  answer  to  her 
remonstrances  or  her  tears  ;  and  in  sullen  silence  he  watched  patiently  by  her  till  she 
died. 

"  Siena  mi  fe  ;  disfecemi  Maremma. 
Salsi  colui,  che'nnanellata  pria, 
Disposando,  m'avea  con  la  sua  gemma." 

The  Maremma  is  continually  in  the  mind  of  Dante  ;  now  as  swarming  with  serpents, 
and  now  as  employed  in  its  great  work  of  destruction. 

(333)  The  temples  of  Psestum. 

(334)  Who  has  travelled  and  cannot  say  with  Catullus, 

"  0  quid  solutis  est  beatius  curis  ? 
Quum  mens  onus  reponit,  ac  peregrino 


460 


NOTES. 

Labore  fessi  renimus  arem  ad  nostrum, 
Desideratoque  acquiescimus  lecto." 

After  this  line,  in  the  MS. 

What  though  his  ancestors,  early  or  late, 

Were  not  ennobled  by  the  breath  of  kings; 

Yet  in  his  veins  was  running  at  his  birth 

The  blood  of  those  most  eminent  of  old 

For  wisdom,  virtue,  —  those  who  could  renounce 

The  things  of  this  world  for  their  conscience'  sake 

And  die  like  blessed  martyrs. 


RECENTLY    PUBLISHED 

BY  PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  AND   COMPANY, 

THE   COMPLETE 

POETICAL  WORKS  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL; 

WITH 

M  ORIGINAL  BIOGRAPHY,  AND  NOTES. 

EDITED  BY  EPES  SARGENT. 


NOTICES    OF    THE    PRESS. 

A  new  edition  of  the  COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL,  which  pos 
sesses  advantages  over  any  hitherto  published,  both  on  account  of  its  superior  typograph 
ical  appearance,  and  because  it  contains  fifty  more  poems  than  any  other  edition  extant, 
some  of  them  unsurpassed  by  the  poet's  best  pieces.  All  these  are  perfectly  well  authen 
ticated,  the  sources  from  which  they  are  taken  being  given  in  the  notes. 

A  memoir  of  one  hundred  pages  is  'prefixed,  compiled  from  the  ample  materials  fur 
nished  by  Dr.  Beattie,  in  his  Life  and  Letters  of  Campbell,  and  by  Mr.  Cyrus  Redding,  in 
a  Series  of  Reminiscences  published  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine.  The  work  has  been 
edited  by  Mr.  Epes  Sargent,  with  great  care  and  fidelity.  —  Norton's  (N.  Y.)  Literary 
Gazette. 

This  is  the  finest  library  edition  of  Campbell  that  we  have  seen,  being  of  goodly  size, 
and  of  admirable  type,  paper  and  binding.  The  Memoir  is  the  best  brief  sketch  of  the 
poet's  life  extant,  and  the  notes  sufficient  and  judicious.  —  Puritan  Recorder. 

Campbell  is  undoubtedly  the  finest  of  English  lyric  poets.  The  present  edition  contains 
a  very  full  memoir.  Fifty  new  poems,  which  have  never  before  appeared  in  a  permanent 
shape,  are  added ;  these  are  generally  short,  but  many  of  them  strikingly  exhibit  the 
poet's  rare  power  of  simple,  concise,  and  yet  magnificent  expression.  The  volume  is 
enriched  with  a  portrait  of  Campbell  when  a  young  man,  and  also  a  pen-and-ink  sketch, 
representing  him  in  the  ease  and  undress  of  his  study.  —  New  York  Courier  and  En 
quirer. 

The  merits  of  the  present  volume  are  marked  ;  for  it  possesses  several  advantages  over 
any  previous  edition  that  we  have  seen.  —  Clark's  Knickerbocker. 

An  excellent  edition,  prepared  by  Epes  Sargent,  who  has  also  prefixed  an  agreeable 
Memoir.  It  is  most  skilfully  and  entertainingly  put  together.  —  Putnam's  Magazine. 

This  edition  is  first  to  be  commended  for  its  typographical  beauty.  The  large,  fine-cut 
letter  sets  off  even  Campbell  to  greater  advantage,  and  in  any  garb  he  is  the  great  lyrical 
poet  of  his  age.  And  this  is  the  edition  of  his  work  5  indeed,  the  only  edition  of  Campbell 
that  can  pretend  to  give  anything  like  his  complete  poetical  works.  But  we  are  not  only 
indebted  to  Mr.  Sargent  for  bringing  together  from  isolated  collections  these  well-authenti 
cated  productions  of  this  eminent  poet ;  we  have  also  to  thank  him  for  the  very  full  and 
entertaining  Memoir  prefixed  to  the  work. 

No  library  can  be  deemed  a  library  without  a  copy  of  Campbell,  and  of  the  best  edition. 
He  is  the  first  poet  who  ought  to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  young,  for  his  English 


style  U  clear,  simple  and  condensed,  and  his  sentiments  are  always  pure  and  elevated. 
No  woman  need  ever  blush  for  being  caught  with  a  poem  of  Campbell's  in  her  hand.  It 
is  a  gift-book  that  will  prove  a  perennial.  —  Boston  Post. 

This  is  a  fair  book,  as  it  should  be,  since  it  contains  the  finished  productions  of  one  of 
the  purest  and  truest  of  English  poets,  who  wrote  nothing  carelessly,  and  not  a  "  line 
against  religion  or  virtue."  It  has  been  carefully  prepared  by  one  well  fitted,  by  taste 
and  study,  for  his  pleasant  task.  An  original,  gracefully-written,  and  full  memoir,  the 
materials  of  which  were  gathered  from  various  sources,  greatly  increases  its  value.  The 
publishers  have  done  good  service  to  literature  in  sending  forth  this  completest  collection  of 
a  bard  whose  "  Gertrude  of  Wyoming  "  should  give  him  a  home  in  every  American  library 
and  heart.  We  are  glad  to  have  such  a  volume  bear  Boston  upon  its  title-page.  —  Chris 
tian  Register. 

By  far  the  best  edition  which  has  been  published.  —  Dedham  Gazette. 

This  is^  truly  beautiful  edition  of  Campbell,  by  far  the  most  elegant  and  complete  that 
has  yet  appeared  in  America.  —  Yankee  Blade. 

The  only  complete  edition  ever  published.  Every  family,  and,  above  all,  every  young 
person  forming  a  literary  taste,  or  cultivating  a  poetical  talent,  should  own  a  copy  of 
Campbell's  complete  works.  —  True  Flag. 

The  chief  feature  in  this  beautiful  edition  of  Campbell's  Poems  is  the  very  full  and  ex 
cellent  life  of  the  poet,  by  Mr.  Sargent.  It  is  written  in  a  clear  and  graceful  style.  — 
Christian  Examiner. 

Mr.  Sargent  appears  to  have  spared  no  pains  to  render  this  acceptable  volume  worthy 
of  the  great  poet,  and  creditable  to  his  own  reputation.  —  Baltimore  American. 

Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.  have  issued  the  most  complete  edition  of  the  poems  of  Camp 
bell  that  we  have  yet  seen.  It  is  well  bound,  and  beautifully  printed  with  large  type.— 
Sciota  Gazette. 

What  a  delicious  book  is  this  new  edition  of  Campbell,  with  its  ample  memoir,  its  full- 
length  portraits  of  the  poet,  and  the  familiar  poems,  as  finished,  and  as  precious,  and  as 
everlasting  as  pearls  !  Mr.  Sargent  has  executed  his  pious  task  with  such  filial  care  and 
completeness  as  to  have  linked  his  name  imperishably  with  that  of  the  poet.  —  New  York 
Home  Journal. 

The  present  is  indeed  the  only  edition  of  Campbell  that  can  pretend  to  give  anything 
like  his  complete  poetical  works.  We  have  also  to  thank  Mr.  Sargent  for  the  very  full 
and  entertaining  memoir  prefixed  to  the  work.  — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

A  most  beautiful  and  acceptable  edition  of  the  great  modern  lyric  poet  of  England,  pre 
faced  by  a  full  and  well-written  biography  from  the  pen  of  an  American  scholar.  — South 
ern  (Richmond)  Literary  Messenger. 

A  most  attractive  volume.  It  presents  a  more  complete  collection  of  Campbell's  poeti 
cal  writings  than  any  edition  before  published.  —  Troy  (N.  F.)  Budget. 

The  most  complete  edition  of  the  works  of  this  beautiful  poet.  It  contains  about  fifty 
additional  poems.  The  full,  well-written  and  highly  entertaining  biography  adds  much 
to  the  attractiveness  of  the  volume.  —  Presbyterian. 

A  handsome  and  convenient  volume  of  460  pages,  printed  in  the  best  style  of  the  Boston 
press.  —  New  York  Independent. 

The  edition  is  one  which,  altogether,  reflects  great  credit  upon  the  American  editor  and 
publishers.  —  Banner  of  the  Cross. 

The  most  complete  edition  of  Campbell's  poetical  works,  and  the  most  desirable  by 
fur.  — Norfolk  (Fa.)  Democrat. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


, . — __ 


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